


New Perspective

by worldswrst (thehotinpsychotic)



Category: Fall Out Boy, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: High School AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2016-06-20
Packaged: 2018-05-09 06:19:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 22,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5529200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thehotinpsychotic/pseuds/worldswrst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pete Wentz is the new student at Harlow high school. Just as quick to love as ever, he finds himself falling hard for a boy by the name of Brendon Urie. Used to rejection, he tries all he can to not go too head over heels. Then again, things never seem to go his way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

            This is it. The moment that Pete’s been preparing, no, _bracing,_ himself for. Beads of sweat collect on his upper lip, and he keeps unconsciously licking them off. His hands tremble and he’s glad he’s sitting, after all, if he had to stand he’d probably collapse.

            “Peter Wentz?” the English teacher, Ms. Kruse, calls. She gazes at Pete expectantly, as do the rest of the class. Pete wants to dissolve in his chair.

            “Present,” Pete replies. Shit, come on! Tell her, you go by Pete now.

            “Welcome to Harlow High,” she greets warmly. “I’m looking forward to having you in class.”

            “Me too,” Pete answers.

            Some stifled laughter, a few misplaced snickers. Fuck, really? Me too? Pete might as well hang his hat at the door and resign all dignity while he can.

            Pete’s whole class period is ruined by that one little mistake. He can’t get over it; he just sits there and thinks about how dumb that was to say. He can’t focus on anything the teacher’s saying, not like he would anyways. Nothing against her or anything, just the fact that Pete’s mind is prone to wandering.

            He gets out of there as fast as he can, rushing to his next class. This one’s a college course, introduction to psychology. Although his knowledge on the subject is rather limited, Pete has always had an interest in psychology. He is so psyched- pun intended- to be taking the course. As a sophomore, too. Luckily for him, his standardized test scores are high enough to place him into a special program at Harlow. He’s grateful for this; he can have a head start on those college credits this way.

            Pete has trouble finding the room. It says something on his schedule about an ICN room, but all the rooms Pete encounters seem to be labeled by numbers, not letters. He wanders around the second floor for what seems like hours. Granted, he could just ask for directions, but it’s never that easy. When it comes to solving problems, Pete tends to take the long way around. Not only that, but doubled with his anxiety, asking a stranger for directions is nearly impossible.

            Noticing the students filtering into classrooms, Pete starts to feel sick. He’s going to be late, isn’t he? Swallowing his pride, he half-jogs to the library, not knowing what else to do. If he musters the courage to ask the librarian, a motherly looking type, he will. If not, he’ll just browse around the reading selections and have himself a study hall.

            Walking past a book display, his bag makes solid contact with a book or two, causing somewhat of a domino effect. Burning red, Pete begins to recollect the books. Crouching to pick one up, he stands, his eyes meeting exactly with a sign printed ‘ICN ROOM.’

            Feeling like this is the best luck he’s had his entire life, Pete abandons the books on their sides, joining the room.

            The first thing Pete notices is the abundance of empty seats. There has to be about eight or nine kids in a classroom set up for twenty or more. Pete can’t decide if this makes him more or less nervous. On one hand, it seems like less to take in, but on the other, it makes for a rather intimate environment.

            The teacher, Mr. Woodward, is already seated at the front of the room. He calls out, “Peter, sit next to someone. This class calls for a lot of discussion.”

            “Sure… sure thing,” Pete mumbles. Evaluating his options, he chooses the least intimidating looking person. That’s not saying much though; Pete only chose them because they were the only one not staring at him.

            Upon sitting down, the kid turns to face him. He’s this strong jawed kind of guy with deep brown eyes and full lips. His hair is shaved down on the sides and slicked back. He’s pretty cute, at least Pete thinks so. Pete’s practically in awe of the kid, so luckily for him, it’s that boy who speaks first. “Hi, I’m Brendon.”

            “Hey, I’m Peter,” Pete responds. “I mean, jeez, I mean Pete.”

            Brendon furrows his brows. “Pete? That’s what you go by, right?”

            Pete nods.

            Brendon does the same, slowly bringing his attention to the front of the room.

            The class does involve quite a fair amount of discussion, just as Mr. Woodward had promised. Whenever he mentions a particularly important psychological concept, he prompts the kids to have a quick thirty second discussion over the topic. He claims you’re more likely to remember the material this way.

            Pete thinks that maybe talking to Brendon will seem less, well, intense after he’s used to him, but it really doesn’t. There’s just something about the kid that all but incapacitates Pete for the duration of the conversation. Hopefully it’s just a crush; Pete isn’t looking for anything long term. Besides, school is terrible enough as it is without having to feel mushy over some boy all the time.

            Of course, it’s just easier to think that way. Sure, Pete wouldn’t turn Brendon down if he professed his love or anything like that. Pete has so much love in him, and he’d actually really enjoy for some to be returned. But things never work out that way. Looking at it realistically, not a lot of guys in the school are gay. Or maybe more are gay than Pete thinks, but they’re just not out yet. Even if they were, why would they go for Pete? Although Brendon seems like the straightest guy ever, if by some miracle he were attracted to dudes, why would he ever choose Pete? That’s the cream of the crop going with the scum of the streets. Pete is fast to fall in love and accustomed to being hurt. More often than not, there’s an orientation barrier. But this time, boy, was the guy out of his league. That’s the thing about being someone like Pete, it seems like just about everyone is out of your league.


	2. Chapter 2

            Compared to how unsuccessful that morning was, the remainder of Pete’s day goes relatively okay. Lunch starts disastrous, but by the end of the hour, he’s feeling better than he had all day.

            It gets off to a poor start when he doesn’t know where to sit. That cliché dilemma where the new kid can’t find a seat? It’s so much worse than you could ever imagine. Hands down, the most awful part is how everyone just stares at him like he’s some sort of idiot. They’re not wrong in doing so, but it’s still rude.

            Taking meaningless rounds around the tables, Pete’s finally called over. “Hey, Pete!”

            Searching towards where the voice came from, Pete meets eyes with Brendon, who is motioning at an empty seat at his table. Pete gives a sigh of relief, grateful to have somewhere to sit. He shuffles over, muttering, “Hey.”

            “Pete, these are the guys,” Brendon tells. Jabbing his fork in the direction of each boy, he talks between mouthfuls, “That’s Patrick and that’s Frank.”

            Patrick is this ginger haired boy wearing glasses and braces. Dressed in a sort of ugly looking button up, he’s a little chubby with a real sweet smile. “It’s nice to meet you.”

            “My pleasure,” Pete replies. Finally, the first damned sentence he hasn’t screwed up today. Having gained a little confidence from his lack of errors, Pete looks at Frank and adds, “It’s nice to meet you, Frank.”

            Frank just sort of smiles and nods. He’s this tiny built kid wearing a ratty Misfits tee and what looks like girls’ jeans. He’s got this wild hair, this fringey black Mohawk with the sides bleached. It’s quite an unmistakable look.

            “So Pete,” Patrick begins. He claps his hands and sets them on the table, raising an eyebrow as he asks, “How’s the first day at Harlow high? Or as the locals call it, ‘how low.’”

            “‘How low?’” Pete reiterates, confused.

            Brendon interjects, “People joke about the next lowest level our high school has reached. As of now, the fired and rehired coach who drove drunk in a suburban full of teenagers takes the cake.”

            Pete looks horrified, his jaw agape.

            Patrick clears his throat, repeating, “How’s it going?”

            Feeling all eyes on him, Pete’s voice gets small as he shrugs, replying, “Gee, I dunno. Okay, I guess?”

            “You just wait,” Patrick declares. “This place will fuck you and then never answer your calls.”

            “Was that not Frank’s situation with Gerard?” Brendon jokes. This makes Frank blush, and he swings back and punches Brendon in the shoulder.

            “Ah!” Brendon hisses, rubbing the sore spot.

            “Such a dick,” Frank mumbles, pushing his fork through his coleslaw.

            “Say Pete, there’s a party this Friday out of town. Why don’t you come with us?” Patrick offers.

            Pete’s immediate reaction is to turn him down. Actually, since he hates confrontation, he wouldn’t outright say no to the guy; instead he’d just make up some phony excuse as to why he can’t be there. And he’s about to do just that, but something stops him.

            It’s Brendon. He is touching Pete’s forearm all gentle and soft, using those puppy dog brown eyes to an advantage. “I want you to come.”

            You might think that Pete sticks to his guns, so set not only in his stubbornness but also his anxiety that he will do _anything_ not to go. You thought wrong; how is Pete supposed to tell Brendon no? How can he tell him anything slightly disappointing when he’s sitting there with his full lips pouted and his stupid dark eyes all big and sappy? It’s much harder than it looks; greater men than Pete have failed to say no to Brendon Urie.

            “I think I’ll go after all,” Pete decides, turning from Brendon. He tells Patrick, “I can’t drive, though; someone will need to take me.”

            “I can,” Frank offers.

            “Iero, you can’t drive!” Brendon chuckles.

            Frank frowns. “Bullshit I can’t; I just got my license, you ballbag.”

            Brendon throws a hunk of bread at Frank, challenging, “Call me a ballbag again, Iero.” He sticks his finger in his mouth, sucking on it before sticking it into Frank’s ear. “I fucking dare you.”

            Frank squirms away, then throwing himself at Brendon, who pulls the smaller teen into a headlock.

            Frank struggles from inside Brendon’s grip, growling, “Mmmf! Let me go!”

            “Is the word “sorry” in your vocabulary?” Brendon teases.

            Frank resists even more, snarling, “Let me out, Urie! Fucker!”

            Pete watches all of this, nudging Patrick to ask in a hushed tone, “Are they okay?”

            Patrick nods, rolling his eyes as he explains, “They always get into it. It’s all in fun.”

            Pete glances back over at the two, seeing now that Brendon has a hold of Frank’s Star Wars boxers, which had been hanging over the waistband of his jeans.

            “Urie, _don’t_ ,” Frank pleads. “Come on, man!”

            “Ready to apologize?” Brendon retorts.

            Frank shakes his head, and as a result, Brendon starts pulling Frank’s boxers up. Frank whimpers and wiggles beneath him, begging, “Brendon, these are new! Quit it!”

            Brendon finally releases Frank, shoving him back into his own seat. All but scarlet, Frank hikes up the waistband of his pants, tucking his underwear back inside of them.

            “So, I’m riding with Frank?” Pete asks.

            Frank nods, breathless. “Yeah, man. I’ll pick you up at eight or so. I just need to know where you live.”

            “It’s on center street,” Pete shares. “Like kitty corner from the car dealership. White house with a red porch.”

            “Oh, you moved into Gabe’s old house,” Patrick notes.

            “Gabe? Who’s Gabe?” Pete questions.

            “Don’t worry about it,” Brendon mutters, crushing his empty milk carton.

            Pete still wants to know, but he reluctantly drops the subject. After all, the last thing he wants is to get on Brendon’s nerves.

            “Yo, Iero,” Patrick summons. Frank meets his eye, and Patrick smirks, “Here comes your man.”

            We all turn to see this pale ghost of a kid approaching our table. His stringy black hair hangs down in his face and he appears to be wearing eyeliner.

            “Gerard, hi,” Frank squeaks. “Good to see you.”

            Gerard, poorly masking a roll of the eyes, tells flatly, “Good to see you too, man.” He cracks his gum, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he continues, “You know, I just stopped by to say that I saw that whole scene you had with Urie a few minutes ago.”

            The color drains from Frank’s face as Gerard sniggers, “Nice Darth Vader undies, fucking geek,” before sauntering off.

            Frank buries his head into his arms, mumbling, “Cocksucker.”

            “He’s just an asshole, Frank,” Patrick comforts. “Don’t pay him any mind.”

            “Yeah,” Brendon reassures. “Just ignore him.”

            Frank stays like that for the rest of the lunch hour, all mopey and whatnot. Of course Pete feels bad for the kid, but he also wonders what happened between him and Gerard. Why is this Gerard kid such a jerk? Pete hopes he never runs into him.

            “Mm, by the way,” Patrick begins, wiping his hands on a napkin. “That kid, Gerard?” Pete nods, and Patrick winces as he informs, “That’s your next door neighbor.”

            Pete groans as the rest of the table cringes on his behalf. Brendon pats his back, assuring, “It’ll be fine, dude. Stay out of his path, alright?”

            Sulking, Pete sighs, “Yeah, I’ll try to.”


	3. Chapter 3

            Pete walks the same way from school that he had to the building that morning. It’s the only route he knows, and while he’s sure he could figure another out if he really wanted to, he’s not really in the mood for it. Not only did he prove himself to be a total idiot during roll call, but he ended up dropping all of his books in the hallway after lunch. He basically spent the entire day confirming the notion that he’s a major spaz. He’s surprised that he didn’t get any shit that day, well, other than the fact that everyone had laughed at him after he fucked up his words during roll call. Still, he’s used to being constantly belittled; it’s all he knows.

            Of course, there’s no telling what the rest of the week might hold. Pete knows that the more time he spends thinking about it, the more likely he is to jinx it, so he does the best he can to keep these kind of thoughts out of his head. It’s hard enough to do on its own, but even worse when Gerard Way comes and talks to him as Pete’s reaching his own driveway.

            Pete about has a heart attack; he had been strolling along when Gerard pops his head over the hedges separating their yards, telling, “Hey.”

            Having nearly jumped out of his skin, Pete blushes, asking, “What?”

            “You’re the new kid, right? What’s your name… Peter?” Gerard inquires.

             Pete unconsciously rolls his eyes, correcting, “I go by Pete.”

            “You’re hanging out with that Iero kid, right?” Gerard demands.

            “Kind of,” Pete answers carefully. He is entirely aware that those two have history and that now, for whatever reason, they can’t stand each other.

            “Watch yourself around him, okay?” Gerard warns. “He’s a little prick, that one is.”

            But did you really have to tease the poor guy in front of his friends? “I’m more hanging around Brendon,” Pete admits. Shit, why would he say that?

            Gerard smirks, raising his eyebrows. Biting his lower lip, he repeats, “Urie, huh?”

            “Yeah,” Pete agrees. Stop talking! For the love of God, stop talking!

            Gerard just chuckles really slowly, like he knows something that Pete doesn’t. “Just let me know how that goes.” With that, he lowers out of sight, and after a few moments, Pete hears the kid’s front door slam.

            Pete hasn’t gotten Brendon’s number yet, so he can’t text him and ask him about all of this Gerard drama. Part of Pete feels like it’ll come together once he understands what the situation between Gerard and Frank was, but of course he can’t ask that in front of Frank; Frank’s made it very clear he doesn’t like to talk about it. He figures he’ll ask Brendon in psychology tomorrow, right before class starts. That is, if he can remember where the damned ICN room is.

            He enters his own home, kicking off his shoes and setting his bag on the floor. He trots up the stairs and into his room, still partially vacant due to the madness of moving a week before school started. He pushes at a box with a socked foot, making its contents jumble in protest.

            He lies on his bed, the idea that he’ll have to go to a party later this week gradually sinking in. Having never been to one, he is extremely nervous. Granted, he’s always nervous, so take that initial anxiety and intensify it, then that’s how he feels about having to go. He really doesn’t want to, having heard horror stories of high school parties. If Pete’s susceptible to beatings and mocking at the hands of douchebags and huge assholes, he can only imagine the likability once those boneheads have excessive amounts of alcohol in them. Not only that, but Pete can’t drink because of his antidepressant medication, so he won’t even be able to be a little tipsy in order to endure the whole thing.

            He resolves that he’ll stay glued to Brendon the entire night. After all, Brendon himself is pretty stacked and could probably ward off any potential enemies. Really, this idea of Brendon being some sort of asshole repellent is the only thing that can make Pete stomach the thought of going in the first place.

            Pete remembers what the guys had said, something at lunch about how Pete now lives in Gabe’s old house, whoever the fuck Gabe was supposed to be. Brendon got all quiet and irritable and didn’t want to talk about it, which was strange. Brendon, a bubbly person, seemed game for pretty much anything, but at the mention of this Gabe character, he all but left the conversation. Perhaps they have some sort of backstory as well?

            That’s what sucks about being the new kid; everyone knows shit that you don’t. They have all these inside jokes, which Pete doesn’t understand, but what’s worse is that Pete is probably missing out on some useful information. He doesn’t know who to avoid, what’s true, and what isn’t. These guys just assume that he has all of the same local knowledge as they do, but he really doesn’t; he only knows one route to school for Christ’s sake. How is he supposed to know who Gabe is and why Gerard’s mad at Frank and why Frank punched Brendon for mentioning Gerard’s name and… he _doesn’t._ He has no idea; he wasn’t there! He couldn’t distinguish any truth from fiction when it came to this town. He could really be proved a sucker if whoever he was deciding to believe played him right.

            He groans, wishing that he just had some sort of explanation to all this shit. Brendon will have to do (once he actually asks for his damn cellphone number), but who says Brendon is telling him the truth? Pete can only take his word for it, and even if someone told him different, it’d be their word against Brendon’s and they’d be right back to square one. So really, Pete’s only option from the beginning is to trust Brendon with everything he’s got.


	4. Chapter 4

            Pete rises bright and early at seven, wanting to leave for school as soon as possible in order to lessen the chance of running into Gerard. One time with that kid was enough confusion. Pete, who is a generally confused person (whether it be academically, sexually, emotionally, or kinesthetically), doesn’t need anyone like Gerard on top of all that.

            He takes quick paces to the school, arriving before 7:30 even. The previous day he’d rolled in a mere five minutes before the main bell rang at 8:20. He’s not sure if any of his new friends will be around, but he figures it’s worth a shot to poke around and find out.

            First, he visits the lunch room. Seeing that their usual table is empty along with many others, Pete frowns, turning to see the breakfast line.

            By a stroke of luck, he sees Frank, who is currently very absorbed in which kind of cereal he’s going to buy.

            As Pete gets closer, he sees the decision is between Marshmallow Mateys and Apple Jacks. Frank’s hand will hover over one, shift to the other, and then fall back at his side.

            “Applejacks are pretty good,” Pete tells.

            Frank just about jumps out of his shoes. He looks at Pete all big eyed, chuckling, “Jesus fucking Christ, man.” He shakes his head, turning his attention back to the cereal selection. “You scared the shit out of me.”          

            “Get the Applejacks, goddamn it,” Pete orders. He laughs, grabbing the sealed plastic bowl and thrusting it into the kid’s arms.

            “Fuck, okay!” Frank giggles in return. Grabbing a small spoon, he points the thing at Pete within an inch of his nose. “But if it sucks you’re finishing it.”

            Frank presses forward, grabbing a carton of milk. Pete follows, watching Frank flash his student I.D. card. Pete grabs a chocolate milk as an afterthought, presenting his card before catching up to Frank, who’s watching Pete expectantly.

            “Let me see your card,” Frank says, reaching for it.

            Pete pulls it away, demanding, “What for?”

            “To see it,” Frank replies, reaching for it once more. He stops walking, shrugging off his backpack and setting down his food. He holds out his hand, ordering, “Give it.”

            “No,” Pete retorts. Part of him doesn’t want Frank to see his dorky picture and everything, but mostly he’s just curious about what Frank’s about to do if he keeps saying no like this.

            Frank answers his question, grabbing Pete by the wrist and grasping again for it. Pete resists, so Frank all but tackles him, still struggling to get ahold of the damned thing.  

            Pete wriggles beneath the kid, who is actually his size, proving a fair fight. Frank pins him, snatching the card and reading it. He falls over laughing, releasing Pete in the process.

            “What’s so damn funny?” Pete demands, breathless.

            If Pete is breathless, then Frank is borderline choking as he laughs so hard. His laugh is so high pitched and childish that Pete starts to chuckle himself. “Your name! P-Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz the third!”

            “Shut up!” Pete snaps, smacking him in the shoulder.

            Frank pouts, still chuckling as he holds his shoulder, teasing, “Ow, that hurt, Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz the third.”

            Pete grabs the card back, tucking it in his pocket before rising to his feet. Upon seeing that Pete is standing, Frank holds his arms up for help. Pete smirks, muttering, “Oh, I’ll _help_ you.” With that, he grabs the kid’s cold hands, planting a foot into Frank’s crotch and pulling upward.

            Frank just about cries, going into a fetal position. He buries his face into the ground, groaning, “Oh, you are such a dick.” He slowly stands, knees pinched and one hand on his crotch. “I can’t wait until you’re not paying attention.”

            “Looking forward to it,” Pete jokes, grabbing Frank’s things for him. Frank puts his bag back on as they walk. They take a turn to a wing that Pete doesn’t recognize, so he asks, “Where are we going?”

            “Vocal room,” Frank answers.

            “Why would we go there?” Pete questions.

            “That’s where everyone is,” Frank replies, tearing the lid off of his cereal.

            “Well, what do they do in there?” Pete asks. “Just horse around or?”

            Frank scoffs, “No they don’t horse around, don’t be dumb, Peter.”

            Pete socks him in the arm. “Don’t fucking call me that.”

            Frank then tends to the welt on his arm, snapping, “OW! You have to find a better outlet than hitting people!” He shakes his head, telling, “You’re like Urie. He is one honorary gay. I, for one, am a docile bisexual.”

            “Wait, did you say he’s gay?” Pete asks.

            Frank widens his eyes, nodding, “Yeah.” He rolls back his shoulders and raises his chest, threatening, “Is that a problem?”

Pete is grinning like an idiot, he’s so giddy. “Problem? No, no! I just didn’t know, that’s all.”

Frank, dipping a finger into his cereal and chewing on a piece, proceeds, “He’s literally the most unambiguously gay dude I’ve ever met. He calls himself a twink in his Twitter bio.” Popping a few more pieces into his mouth, he adds, “Guys like Urie spend a lot of time in the gym squatting, not for strong legs, but for nice asses, you know?” Frank pauses, stammering, “N-not that all gay-gay guys do that, I-I mean-”

Pete places a hand on his shoulder, still smiling as he assures, “I got you, bud.” Pete waits a moment, then prying, “So, what kind of guys is Brendon into?  Sporty, artistic, funny?”

Frank stops, staring at Pete. “Oh my God.”

“What?”

“Oh my God, you like Brendon,” Frank realizes.

“What?” Pete snorts, poorly forcing a laugh. “No, I don’t.”

“Yes, yes you do,” Frank insists. “You have a crush on him, Pete.”

Heat rises to Pete’s cheeks, and also somewhere else. Pete adjusts his footing, unable to hide it. “No…”

“And now you have a boner,” Frank notices. “Don’t even try to hide it at this point, man; your cock is betraying you.”

“Okay, I like him,” Pete admits. “So what? Why is that some bad, terrible thing?”

“You don’t know Urie like I do, okay?” Frank answers in a low voice. “You weren’t around when he was fucking Gabe. You don’t know what Brendon does with guys who are into him.”

“What even happened?”

“You don’t need to know,” Frank dismisses.

“But I deserve to know,” Pete points out. “Maybe I’ll just go after him because I don’t know any better, b-because all you would tell me is some half-baked story about a guy named Gabe.”

“Fine!” Frank barks. “Do you want to know?”

“Yeah, I do!” Pete retorts hotly.

“Gabe was a freshman; Brendon was a sophomore. Gabe liked Brendon, Gabe told Brendon, Brendon and Gabe fucked for some few months, then out of the blue, Brendon dumps the kid, telling him he never liked him in the first place,” Frank says quickly. Seeing the hurt in Pete’s eyes, Frank softens, shrugging. “I like Brendon, I really do. He’s a good guy. He just…” Frank looks up, struggling to find the words. He meets Pete’s gaze again, finishing, “He doesn’t know how to handle a heart, Pete. Maybe he needs more experience, I don’t know.” Frank leads Pete into the vocal room with the others, leaning in close to conclude, “Just don’t let yourself be a practice run.”


	5. Chapter 5

            Pete doesn’t really know how to function after that. Patrick and Brendon are happy to see him, and Pete’s glad he’s there, too, but he just can’t _show_ that he is.

            Less than ten minutes into hanging out with the guys, Patrick announces, “Pete, you ever seen the poorly tuned piano?”

            Pete looks at him quizzically. “No.”

            Patrick grabs him by the arm, dragging him into an adjacent room. “You just have to. We fuck around with it all the time.”  
            As soon as they’re in the tiny practice area with the door shut, Patrick demands, “What the fuck is going on with you?”

            Pete chuckles anxiously. “What do you mean?” He tries to lean back against said poorly tuned piano, but his hand misses and he just hits a patch of discordant notes. Withdrawing his hand sheepishly, he blushes.

            “You’re acting really uptight and nervous,” Patrick elaborates. Pete’s about to interrupt with a counter argument about his anxious tendencies, but Patrick adds, “More than usual.”

            “I don’t want to…. I can’t tell you,” Pete murmurs.

            “You can tell me anything,” Patrick assures.

            “No, I really can’t,” Pete insists. “I get what you mean in the emotional supportive sphere, but that’s not what _I_ mean. You can’t know, okay?” Pete picks at his fingers, muttering, “It’ll just piss you off.”

            They’re quiet for some time, Patrick holding this gaze at Pete while the younger boy refuses to meet his eye, too fearful to raise his eyes. Finally, Patrick guesses, “It’s about Brendon, isn’t it?”

            Pete looks up, eyes narrowed. “What the fuck, did Iero tell you?”

            “No, but you just did.”

            “Look, you can’t tell Brendon,” Pete pleads. “He’ll hate me and he’ll hate Frank and then Frank will hate me and I’ll hate myself.”

            Patrick looks at him skeptically, widening his eyes. “Relax, okay? I’m not going to tell anyone!” He stands there, inspecting his own nails not out of anxiety, but rather out of boredom. “So, what’s the sitch?”

            “Okay, Kim Possible,” Pete begins. “So, I uh…” Pete trails off, mumbling softly, almost inaudibly, “I like Brendon.”

            Patrick raises an eyebrow. “What?”

            Pete sighs dramatically, speaking rapidly, “IlikeBrendon.”

            “Come again?”

            Rolling his eyes, Pete finally yells, “I like Brendon!”

            “Yeah, no shit,” Patrick scoffs. “Now tell me what’s really up?”

            Pete’s eyes bulge out of his head. “You don’t believe me?”

            “No, you idiot!” Patrick laughs. “I just already knew that.”

            “How could you tell?” Pete questions incredulously.

            “I have eyes,” Patrick replies solemnly.

            “Yeah, I do too,” Pete snaps, getting annoyed with some of the attitude he’s getting from Patrick. He doesn’t owe the kid anything.

            “Yes, except yours are very prone to never leaving Brendon,” Patrick shares. “The only exception being a lengthy stare at his ass.”

            Pete crosses his arms, stammering, “I-I don’t do that.”

            “Bullshit you don’t!” Patrick chuckles. “You were so intense I was surprised you didn’t burn a hole in it.” Patrick shakes his head, giggling to himself. “Oh, and you also lick your lips a lot when he talks to you.”

            Pete’s eyes triple in size. “I do that?”

            Patrick nods, admitting, “It’s a fucking train wreck to witness. I’m surprised Brendon hasn’t noticed yet, but he’s probably too busy thinking about Sinatra and god knows what else to pay any attention.”

            Pete slumps to the floor, grabbing a fistful of his own hair. “Oh my God, do you think he knows?”

            “Doubt it,” Patrick answers. “If Brendon knew you were into him, I’m sure there wouldn’t be a waking moment where he didn’t remind you about it.”

            “That’s a relief,” Pete sighs.

            “Can I ask a question?”

            Pete looks up at him. “Sure, man, anything.”

            Patrick sits next to Pete, confessing, “Out of our little loser clan, I guess I’m the only straight guy. From a totally curious standpoint, can I just ask what it is that you see in Brendon?”

            “Um, y-yeah, I guess so,” Pete answers. He glances over at Patrick, to see the teen gesturing for Pete to continue. “I uh… I like his hair, his hair’s good. He has super full, pink lips.” Pete zones out, continuing, “And he’s got really nice, soft eyes. And a dreamy smile. Not to mention, a body that just won’t quit. I mean, you could probably bounce a quarter off his ass.”

            “Okay that’s enough,” Patrick interrupts, standing quickly. “Stop, before I vomit.”

            “Sorry,” Pete chuckles. “I mean, he’s got a great personality, too, but I’m sure that from a friend’s standpoint you can appreciate that.”

            “Alright, you like him,” Patrick starts. “I get that. What I don’t get is why you’re acting all weird just now, I mean, it’s pretty obvious that you’ve been mooning after him since day one.” 

            “It’s Frank,” Pete confides, peering up at Patrick.

            “What, what’d he say?”

            Pete’s eyes swell as he confesses, “He told me about Gabe, like not in a lot of detail or anything, but I got the outline of what happened and how it ended and I just...” Pete shakes his head. “How the fuck are you supposed to carry on liking someone knowing they did something like that?”

            Patrick places a hand on Pete’s shoulder, comforting, “If it’s any consolation, Brendon really is a nice guy. I think he just got put in a bad situation.”

            “That’s something like what Frank said,” Pete mutters. “He warned me, Patrick. He basically told me not to get involved.” Pulling his knees to his chest, he proceeds, “And now I’m just so damn confused.” He chuckles shortly, bitterly, “I was _so_ happy when I found out Brendon was attracted to guys.” Burying his head in his knees, he whines, “Ugh, it sucks so bad. What do you think I should do?”

            Patrick winces, “This might not be what you want to hear, but I would have to side with Frank on this one. Like I said, Brendon is a good guy; I just don’t think it’s a good idea.”

            “Yeah, okay,” Pete says quietly. Feeling a lump collect in his throat, he stands up, brushing his hands off on his pants.

            Patrick pats him on the shoulder, reassuring, “It’ll be alright, man. It’ll work out.”

            Pete nods, silently praying for a better resolution than this.


	6. Chapter 6

            Over the next few days, Pete finds himself almost avoiding Brendon. Of course, he still joins him and his friends on almost a tridaily basis. Not only that, but he does still have to talk with him in psychology about things like sexual abnormality (boy was it fun trying to explain to the older boy what an exhibitionist was). Despite all this, he still feels himself unconsciously building barriers between the two. He’s much closer to Frank now than anyone else, hell, he found out what happened between Frank and Gerard by asking Iero. It was sort of a Gabe/Brendon situation, where Gerard was Brendon and Frank was Pete. They were pretty comparable, except the way that Frank told it had a lot more sex scenes.

            Everything seems so different from that first day; even Gerard has stopped stealing glances over at their lunch table. Pete doesn’t know what to make of it; it doesn’t feel right in the sense that it’s not how things had originally went, but at the same time, what happened that first day was only for one day, so he didn’t really have the time to grow accustomed to it. It’s all so strange and vague and Pete hates it.

            Thinking about shit like this gets Pete’s stomach in knots, quite literally. He ends up getting sick shortly after the last bell of the day. The locker room was the nearest facility, so he takes a dead sprint for the toilet, closing the stall door with his foot as he hurls.

            Stumbling out, lips wet and foreign and knees weak, he peeks around the corner, going to wash his hands. He’s just stepping a foot out from that huge niche in the wall when a whole lot of commotion drifts from the adjacent hallway and into the farther open area.

            Pete ducks behind the wall, his breathing rapid. He focuses on making himself as flat as possible as he listens to whatever it is that’s going on.

            At first, it’s nothing but a whole lot of yelling, which eventually funnels to one distinct voice, “Guys, please! Just let me go.”

            Shit, that _is_ a distinct voice. That’s Brendon’s voice.

            “Urie, we have a Friday tradition to uphold!” one of them insists. “Wedgie the Mormon!”

            “Come on, just leave me alone,” Brendon begs. “Please, I’m literally begging you.”

            “Why, are you afraid of what we’re going to do to you?” another laughs. “It won’t kill you, man. Not to mention, you’re gay! Gay guys love having things shoved up their ass!”

            “Stop,” Brendon whimpers, tears in his wavering voice.

            “Aw, the little faggot’s crying!” There’s some more commotion, followed by a, “It’ll be over before you know it.”

            Pete forces himself to peek around the wall, just in time to see Brendon, who is being pinned against a row of lockers, have the tail of his shirt pulled over his head. Damn, there’s that nice body. They hook it around his head, leaving his bare back exposed. Pete can still hear Brendon sobbing, only now it’s muffled through his cotton t shirt.

            The ringleader, this gnarly (as in nasty, not radical) looking guy, grabs ahold of Brendon’s white waistband to his underpants. “Are you wearing tighty whities? What are you, eight?” Pulling up on the fabric, he reveals the back of the underwear, showing its bright yellow material. “They’re canary! You guys, this little homo is wearing yellow undies.” He pulls harder, nearly lifting Brendon off the ground. Seeing leg holes arise from Brendon’s jeans, he announces, “And they’re briefs!”

            The group of guys, these two other dudes, are just about peeing themselves from laughter. Pete feels sick to his stomach just watching.

            This time, the much taller boy literally does raise Brendon’s heels from the floor, making Brendon cry out. He says something else, to which the boy responds, “What was that? We’re a bunch of dicks?” He yanks harder, telling, “I don’t know, man, I mean, you _are_ the dick expert.”

            The group is already dying from how funny they think it is when there’s a very distinctive tearing sound.

            Pete cringes as he watches the boy pull the small hole in the briefs either way, totally shredding Brendon’s underwear. “Fun seeing you, little boy.” He shoves Brendon into the lockers once more, harshly bringing his shirt back down.

            They’re in hysterics, prompting Brendon to call, “You guys owe me a new pair!”

            “We don’t owe you shit!” one hollers back.

            Brendon, tears still in his eyes, kicks gently at the bottom of the lockers, then swinging back and punching one, rattling it’s handle and kicking it angrily. “Fuck!”

            He shakes the entire row with his meltdown, still screaming incoherently. He stops, running a hand through his hair. He seems to have called down.

            Pete steps out, just as Brendon, back turned, undoes his jeans and pulls them to his ankles, unknowingly putting his ass on display.

            Pete, furiously blushing, calls, “Brendon, hi!”

            Brendon turns, almost falling over in an attempt to bring his pants back up. “Pete! I didn’t see you!” He’s blushing like crazy; he’s probably redder than Pete.

            “What was that all about?” Pete asks.

            Brendon chuckles mirthlessly, “What, that?” He sits, lying, “Nothing, man. They were just horsing around.”

            “Brendon,” Pete starts.

            “I don’t need any sympathy, okay?!” Brendon snaps. Crying again, he continues, “I’m fucking pathetic, I get it! You don’t have to remind me!”

            Pete slowly reaches Brendon’s side, sitting next to the taller boy. Brendon inches away, so Pete scooches closer, which makes Brendon slide away. They do this for a while until Brendon smacks into a row of lockers, blocking his path. Pete, grinning as he finally gets close to Brendon, brings an arm around him. Brendon gives in, resting his head on Pete’s shoulder as he silently cries. They stay like that until the tears cease, Brendon wiping his eyes on his hand. “I’m sorry I was so mean to you. It’s not you; I’m just upset.”

            Shit, how could this boy ever be a threat? Maybe Frank and Patrick don’t know what they’re talking about. Or better yet, maybe Brendon just knows Pete on a different level than he does those two. For whatever reason, Pete just can’t picture this sniffling teenager as any sort of danger. “It’s okay.”


	7. Chapter 7

            Brendon stands, wiping his eyes once more. “God, I probably look so gross.” He offers a hand to Pete, who effectively suppresses his heart palpitations and accepts it, allowing Brendon to pull him to his feet.

            Brendon chuckles, “You’re so fucking light. What are you, like 90 pounds?”

            “Shut up!” Pete giggles. He decides that this whole incident is basically a green light to start shamelessly flirting with the older teen. Following Brendon out and down the hallway, Pete reasons, “We don’t all have the time or desire to work out every day.”

            Brendon scoffs, “Work out? What are you talking about; I never work out.”

            “Frank says you do,” Pete insists.

            “Frank says a lot of things,” Brendon counters.

            Pete, really putting himself out of his own comfort zone, lifts the front of Brendon’s shirt, revealing the boy’s stomach. “You have abs and you’re trying to tell me you’ve never done a sit up?”

            Brendon responds by grabbing the front of Pete’s shirt, lifting him and pressing his back to a wall. He gets close to Pete, and he can practically see the stunned arousal in the boy’s eyes when Brendon utters, “I’ve never worked my upper body either.” He sets Pete down gently, straightening his now crumpled shirt.

            Pete, flustered, starts to feel a problem growing down south. He stammers, “I uh… I left my bag upstairs… in-in my locker.” Practically in a sprint, he calls, “Let me go get it quick!”

            Brendon smirks, totally knowing Pete’s cause for going AWOL.

             Pete grabs his bag, glancing down at his growing erection. “Shit.” Turning to external resources, he grabs a sweatshirt from his locker and tries to casually hold it over his crotch.

            Brendon doesn’t say anything, which doesn’t mean he doesn’t notice Pete’s strategic hand and clothing placement. Brendon, crossing to the parking lot with Pete on his tail, offers, “I can give you a ride home, Pete.”

            Pete perks up. “A ride? Oh, yeah that’d be great, thanks.”

            “No problem,” Brendon replies. “It’s the least I can do to thank you.”

            “Thank me?”

            Brendon looks back at Pete and nods, “Yeah, thank you.” He turns his head back front, adding, “For being there for me. No one’s done that.” He pauses, considering, “Well, I guess I could go to Patrick or Frank but, they just don’t know. They literally have no idea about any of this.”

            “Why not say something?” Pete suggests.

            Brendon shakes his head. “That’d be way too embarrassing; I could hardly talk to you about it.”

            “Actually,” Pete interjects. “We didn’t really talk about it, I mean, you just sort of sat there and cried.” Realizing how harsh that had sounded, he adds, “Not that that’s a bad thing or anything, but I just didn’t get any more of the story.”

            Brendon shrugs, unlocking the doors of a silver car with a beep. He ducks his head and sits in the driver’s spot, and Pete does the same in the passenger seat.

            Buckling his seatbelt, Brendon turns on the engine. He messes with the radio as he proceeds, “There’s not a lot to it; they don’t like me because I’m gay. And Mormon. They don’t like me because I’m a gay Mormon.” He puts the car in reverse, backing out before leaving the parking lot. “It’s not like I’m generally cool or anything like that, either. I’m just an easy target, I guess.”

            “Do they… have they ever…” Pete starts. Brendon shoots him a confused sideways glance, so Pete explains, “Sorry, I just don’t know how to ask this without being insensitive.” He motions his hands in useless circles, asking, “Have they ever beat you up?”

            Brendon bites his lip, struggling to recall. “No, not really. They’ve roughed me up plenty, but I haven’t yet had the pleasure of a full ass kicking.” He brings one hand around to his ass, complaining, “But I think I’d take a beating over what happened today.”

            “Why?” Pete asked. “I mean, I’ve gotten my ass properly kicked before, and let me tell you, it fucking sucked.”

            “Well, yeah but…” Brendon sighs with frustration. “Mostly I just wish I hadn’t worn that pair of underwear today.”

            “Why, because they thought they were dorky?” Pete guesses.

            “No,” Brendon answers. “They’ll make fun of me no matter what. But those were expensive, mind you. Also, they’re like fucking cardboard.” He lifts up a side of his shirt, briefly peeking at the exposed skin. “I’m pretty sure I have rug burn.”

            He throws his shirt down, sighing as he continues, “I just really liked that pair.” He fishes a hand around down the back of his pants to the tattered remains, tearing off a small scrap. He holds it out to Pete, telling, “And now…”

            Pete smacks his hand away, laughing, “Get that away from me! You literally just pulled that out of your ass!”

            Brendon laughs himself. “I technically didn’t. It was more around the gooch vicinity.”

            “God, you’re gross,” Pete chuckles. “I don’t want to hear about your gooch.”

            They sit there for a moment, still a little giggly. Brendon then realizes, “Shit, it’s Friday.”

            “That’s a good thing,” Pete points out.

            “We have a party tonight,” Brendon reminds.

            Pete groans, “I forgot that’s tonight.”

            “Haven’t been looking forward to it?”

            “No,” Pete confesses. “I’m mostly worried about all of those drunk jocks. I figured I could use you for protection, but I feel like that’s gone out the window now.”

            Brendon frowns, saying quietly, “You know, it’s not my fault I can’t be your bodyguard.”

            Pete realizes how shitty that had sounded, and he apologizes, “Sorry, Brendon; I didn’t mean it like that.”

            “Then how did you mean it?” Brendon demands. “You act like I’m getting my ass kicked left and right.”

            “I’m sorry.” Pete repeats. “It was dumb of me to say.” Brendon still looks a little pissed off, so Pete grabs his tense forearm, insisting, “ _My_ fault, okay?”

            Brendon’s eyes flicker over to him for a short moment, and his tight muscle eases into a more relaxed state beneath Pete’s touch. “Yeah, okay.”

            They sit in another quiet, although this one is more of a Brendon trying to convince himself he’s not totally weak while Pete wallows in guilt. Pete breaks the silence, remarking, “Damn, how long does it take to get to my house?”

            “Oh!” Brendon starts chuckling, admitting, “I’ve circled around the block a good five times or so.”

            Pete giggles, “Why? What for?”

            Brendon shrugs. “I don’t know I just… we were right in the middle of a conversation and….” His eyes lower as he pulls into Pete’s driveway. He stops the car, not raising his gaze as he tells in a small voice, “I like talking to you.”

            Pete smiles, leaning over and replying, “I like talking to you too.” He places a hand onto Brendon’s thigh, purring, “I like a lot of things about you.”

            This time Brendon looks at him in bewilderment, his eyes big and innocent. He’s been hamming up the sexual tension with Pete for some time now, surely he saw this as an end result, right? No, not really. He wasn’t ever confident in the fact that Pete ever liked him, like _actually_ liked him. Sure, the two could shoot the shit and flirt like it was nothing, but that was as far as Brendon saw it going. Brendon had a habit of putting a lot of effort into temporary practices, so things like flirting were his favorite. Did he ever think all this was going to build up to anything? No.

            But there he is, sweating against his leather seat with this totally gorgeous boy’s hand dangerously close to his swelling crotch. He doesn’t know what to do, so he closes his eyes, waiting for Pete to take initiative and plant that first kiss on his lips.

            “Wentz!”

            Pete bolts upright, straining to hear. “What was that?”

            “Wentz I have to talk to you!” The voice is getting closer.

            Pete immediately readjusts, snatching his hand back and trying to look nonchalant in his seat, just in time for Gerard to appear at the car window. Gerard taps on the glass, mouthing something. Pete asks, “Brendon, could you roll my window down?”

            “Yeah, yeah. Um… sure thing, Pete, yeah,” Brendon stammers, rolling the window down.

            Pete thanks him before turning to face Gerard. “What do you want?”

            Gerard looks distressed. Distressed, in Pete’s book, is a polite way to say someone looks like shit. “Did you talk to Frank?”

            “Not recently, why?”

            Gerard shakes his head, cursing, “I’m going to kill him. I’m going to fucking wring the little rat’s throat.”

            Before Pete can try to say anything, Gerard storms off, slamming the front door to his house on his way inside.

            “Yikes,” Pete comments, still peering out the window.

            “Yikes is right,” Brendon agrees. He gives his sultriest look as he leans over to Pete, ready to pick up where they had left off.

            Pete hops out, calling, “Thanks for the ride!” He sticks his head through the vehicle window for a short moment, adding, “I’ll see you tonight.” Brendon is again trying to make a move just as Pete recoils from reach, admonishing, “You should roll your window up; bugs will fly in.”

            He then skips off to his house like nothing had happened, entering without giving a second look back at Brendon.

            Brendon sits there in confusion, massaging his hard cock through the denim of his jeans. Finally he withdraws, reminding himself that he’ll see Pete later tonight as he leaves the boy’s driveway.


	8. Chapter 8

            Frank pulls up at Pete’s house surprisingly early. While he’s not necessarily late often, Pete still doesn’t expect to see him in his drive way so soon. In fact, Pete’s still getting ready, adding finishing touches to his hair and spritzing those final clouds of cologne of the back of his neck. After all, tonight can be the night that something special happens between him and Brendon. He’s not trying to anticipate it; to expect something as great as that would be a one-way road to disappointment. He decides that he’s going to head over to the party, post up and hang out, and smell damn good doing it.

            Frank waits for a few minutes, his mind wandering as he listens to the Misfits over his car stereo. If the moment is just right, Frank can sneak glances in at Pete through their bay window. The kid’s currently slipping into some shoes, scrambling around to find a sweatshirt.

            Frank sighs, turning off the car and getting out, closing its door softly. He leans against it, contemplating the thought of knocking on Wentz’s front door to speed up this whole process.

            “Frank!” a voice calls. Frank, immediately recognizing it as Gerard’s, turns in that direction, to see Gerard storming at him.

            Confused, Frank begins, “Gerard, what’s wr-”

            Gerard grabs the front of Frank’s jacket, slamming his back against his own car. He lifts Frank’s heels off the ground, glaring down into his eyes. “You are fucking dead, Iero.”

            “What are you talking about?” Frank whines, his throat tightening. Part of him is hurt by Gerard’s glowering demeanor, but the rest of him is frozen in fear. He’s never seen Gerard like this, _ever._ Gerard wasn’t exactly the nicest guy on the block, but he wasn’t one to pin you up against your vehicle and threaten your life either, at least not without good reason.

            Gerard retaliates by smacking Frank’s back harshly against the vehicle, growling, “You fucked everything up. I had friends, Frank, good friends.”

            “Yeah, and?” Frank demands, fighting the searing pain in his shoulder.

            “They all hate me now, or think I’m weird, or want to beat me up,” Gerard tells.

            “Gee, some friends you got there.”

            Gerard punches him in the stomach, snapping, “Would you shut up, you little rat?!”

            Frank, coughing, chokes out, “Fuck off.” He starts to double over, which Gerard corrects by placing a hand beneath his jaw and pinning him to the car hood.

            Gerard, his voice a cold whisper, hisses, “Tell me why you did it or we’re going to have a lot of trouble.”

            Frank blinks. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

            “You know what you did,” Gerard retorts. A look of hesitation flickers in his eyes, some sort of brief wave of guilt for what he’s doing. Overcome again by an overwhelming sense of betrayal, he accuses, “Ever since we broke up…”

            “You ignored and avoided me,” Frank corrects.

            Gerard rolls his eyes, allowing, “Yes… ever since that, we haven’t been the best of friends, I know that.” He pauses, pressing a jabbing finger into Frank’s chest as he proceeds, “But I would _never,_ not in a million years, put you in danger.” Gerard almost starts to tear up, confessing, “I wouldn’t do that to you, Frank.” Seeing Pete emerge from his house, Gerard leaves, cursing under his breath.

            Pete frowns. “Frank? What was all that about?”

            Frank sighs, answering, “I honestly don’t know. But he’s super upset Pete, like, way angrier than I’ve ever seen him.” Frank runs a hand through his hair, “I don’t think I did anything. If I did, I didn’t mean to.”

            Pete puts a hand on his shoulder, patting him as he assures, “Don’t worry about him, man.”

            “I can’t,” Frank responds. “I’m worried.”

            “Look, come to the party,” Pete encourages. “Have a few drinks, shoot the shit, just wind down. You can call Gerard when you get home, alright?”

            Frank shrugs, mentioning, “I don’t want to drive home drunk.”

            “You’re getting drunk?” Pete asks. “I said have a few, not the whole keg.”

            Frank rolls his eyes. “No, moron. I just don’t want to drive if I’m not totally sober.” Frank’s eyes flash from the ground up to Pete as he pleads, “Could you drive me home, Pete? Please?”

            Pete nods. “Well, yeah, but how do I get home from there?”

            Getting in the car and motioning for Pete to do the same, Frank continues, “You could drop me off, drive this hunk of junk home and I could pick it up sometime tomorrow.” He chews his lip, suggesting, “Alternatively, you could drive me with Brendon tailing you, then Brendon drive you home.”

            “I like the last plan,” Pete tells.

            Frank raises an eyebrow as he heads down the street, questioning, “Why, because it involves Urie?”

            Pete blushes, lying, “No! I just… that way your stupid car won’t be at my house all night.” He gazes out the window, adding for good measure, “My mom wouldn’t be happy about it.”

            “Your mom,” Frank begins, twisting the volume knob of the radio down, “would be more upset about you and Urie shagging in your bedroom that night.”

            “Shut up!” Pete laughs, giving Frank a solid punch in the thigh.

            “Ow!” Frank yelps. He rubs his leg, snapping, “I’m driving; back off before you get us all killed!”

            “What if…” Pete starts. He pauses, deciding, “I guess that whole thing with Brendon following us is the best idea, huh?”

            Frank nods. “Well, naturally; it was my idea. Of course it was the indisputable solution.”

            “Maybe Gerard is mad because you’re an egotistical cock,” Pete jokes.

            “That would explain a lot of things,” Frank replies, deadpan. He shrugs, deciding, “I’m not too worried about it.” Adjusting his rearview mirror, he asks, “Seriously though, what is going on with you and B?”

            “A gentleman doesn’t tell,” Pete giggles. He grins, admitting, “Nothing’s happened yet. There’s been a lot of flirting though, or at least what I’m interpreting as flirting.”

            Frank gestures towards himself, prompting, “Tell me some of the things he did. I know how the kid flirts.”

            “What can I say, he swept me off my feet,” Pete confides dreamily. “Literally, he picked me up off the ground.”

            “See, that there is how I know he’s feeling it,” Frank informs. “Physical contact is huge with the guy. Very smarmy and touchy feely.”

            With this extra beat of confidence, Pete actually awaits the party, eager for only one reason, and that sole purpose being to pursue Brendon Urie with all he's got.


	9. Chapter 9

            They don’t exactly arrive at the height of the party; some music plays lowly as small groups of kids sit around in clusters, chatting among themselves. The host of the party confesses sheepishly, “The keg’s coming a bit later than we thought.”

Pete rolls his eyes, turning to walk with Frank. He grumbles, “Gee, this is so fun. I’m glad you talked me into going.”

“Me?” Frank scoffs. At Pete’s nod, he reminds, “It was all Patrick and Urie; I didn’t talk you into shit.”

“Speaking of, where is Brendon?” Pete asks, unconsciously checking his breath.     

“Take it easy, he’s on his way,” Frank assures. He grins, joking, “Keep it in your pants until then.”

“Ha ha,” Pete responds flatly, his face still growing hot.

Frank wanders upstairs, Pete on his trail. Frank groans, “God, the kids around here can’t even chug alcohol right.”

“No one’s chugging alcohol,” Pete pointed out, confused.

“Exactly!” Frank agreed. “Because someone fucked up and now there’s none here.”

“Why don’t we do something until then?” Pete suggests.

“Like what?” Frank demands.

Pete shrugs, reasoning, “I’m not from around here, Frank. Show me around, what’s so fun about these parties?”

Frank pouts, “Usually, it’s the getting shitfaced.” He starts down the steps, heading back to the main room. “But I guess since there’s none here, we’ll have to do something else.” He puts his hand on a doorknob, gesturing at the door and whispering, “Kids are probably playing spin the bottle down there or something.”

Pete gets uneasy, and he admits, “I don’t really want to play that.”

“Why not?” Frank asks, exasperated.

Fighting the urge to smack Frank for being so clueless, Pete reminds, “I only want to be with Brendon.”

Frank frowns, recalling, “Oh yeah.” He stuffs his hands in his pockets, striding over to the couch and sitting down briskly. Frank allows his neck to fall back into the headrest, sprawling his arms across the material and spreading his legs. Pete sits rigid beside him, his back aligned with nothing but air and his hands on his thighs. Pete sets his head down in his lap, complaining, “This sucks. Why isn’t Brendon here?”

“Maybe Patrick is,” Frank says, straightening himself. “If anything, he’d be in the basement.” Pete looks unsure, so Frank promises, “We’ll just avoid any games they have going on down there.”

They head down the basement steps, scoping out the small area. Frank almost immediately finds Patrick, indulged in a game of spin the bottle. Meeting Frank’s eyes, Patrick gives the boy a thumbs up sign before returning his attention to the game.

“See Brendon anywhere?” Frank questions, looking over the room once more.

Pete shakes his head because the kid is really nowhere to be found. He doesn’t know where he is, that is, until he hears a hauntingly familiar laugh from a back corner of the room.

Pete finds Brendon, towering over this kid with spiked hair and dimples. The two are hitting it off, it seems; Brendon is playing with the younger boy’s hair as they talk.

Pete swallows. Feeling his hand twitch, he nudges Frank. “Is Brendon friends with that kid?”

Frank follows Pete’s gaze over to the corner, his eyes widening. “I uh… I don’t know, Pete.”

Pete frowns, watching not out of interest, but out of spite. If Brendon thinks he’s just so sneaky, then he has another thing coming. Pete is surely here, and he is totally watching him flirt up this freshman.

That’s when Brendon leans in, kissing the boy softly.

Pete’s stomach sinks, his bones become lead, and each organ seems to solidify into stone. “That...”

Frank puts a hand on Pete’s shoulder, starting, “Oh, gosh Pete…”

“That dick!” Pete yells, stomping up the steps. He slams the door behind him, making everyone in the room jump, including Brendon and his date.

            Frank catches Brendon’s eyes with a cold sort of glare. In that moment, Brendon knows exactly who had slammed the door, and why even. He gives a sort of deer caught in the headlights expression, his jaw hanging and eyes swelled. He rushes over to the stairs, passing Frank on the way.

            Frank grabs Brendon by the collar, yanking him around and against the wall. Although Frank is usually no match for the taller, stronger teen, Brendon knows he’s wrong, so he lets it happen. “I can’t believe you’d do that to him.”

            “I didn’t know,” Brendon tells softly.

            “That’s a fucking lie,” Frank hisses.

            “I’m sorry,” Brendon apologizes. “I am.” He puts his hands over Frank’s wrists, lowering the boy’s stretched arms. “I have to go talk to Pete.”

            Frank grabs him once more, snarling, “You owe that poor boy an explanation.”

            “That’s what I’m doing,” Brendon retorts.

            “No, dumbass,” Frank scowls, jerking his head in the direction of the kid Brendon had just kissed.

            Brendon, embarrassed now, tucks his hands behind his back, shuffling over. “Hey.”

            “What was that about?” Tyler asks, confused.

            Brendon hesitates, sneaking a glance at Frank, who seems to threaten him with a fist. “I have something to tell you, Tyler.”

            “Yeah?” Tyler encourages, taking Brendon’s large hands in his own.

            Brendon gently wrings his hands free, confiding, “There’s someone else.”

            Tyler’s soft features harden, and he shoves Brendon, hard, spitting, “Dick!” before storming off.

            Brendon exhales heavily, happy to have that taken care of. Knowing Tyler, the kid will be over it soon enough. He’s more worried about Pete, who is up to God knows what right now. Brendon races up the steps and into the living room, which is slowly starting to fill with the now present keg. Stringing a hand in his hair, Brendon paces around, his eyes darting around wildly in search of Pete. “Shit, shit, _shit_.”

            Meanwhile, Pete sits in the passenger seat of Frank’s car. He’s put Iero’s keys in so he can listen to the radio; he knows that he won’t mind. Sitting there against the ugly patterned cloth, he curls up, his knees pressed to his chest. Letting out a sad sigh, he dips his head, starting to cry just as the radio fades out to commercials.


	10. Chapter 10

            Pete’s sitting out there for what feels like hours, taking advantage of Frank’s car heater as he stays like that, crying and feeling helpless.

            Eventually, Frank wanders outside and, upon seeing his car running, rushes to it, tapping on the window. Pete rolls it down to see Frank standing there with a tilted smile on his face. It’s not the kind of smile that happens when you’re joyful; it’s the kind that you give when you don’t know what to say, and his eyes tell all. He does say something, telling softly, “I figured you might be out here.”

            Pete shifts over to the driver’s spot, unlocking the car before rolling the window back up. He motions for Frank to take a seat in the passenger side, which Frank does, closing the car door with a capped thud behind him. “Brendon’s been looking everywhere for you.” Frank pauses, chewing on his lower lip. “Well, not everywhere I guess, otherwise he would have found you.”

            “I don’t want him to see me like this,” Pete sniffles. He wipes his eyes with the heel of his palm, admitting, “I don't even want you to see me like this.”

            “It’s fine,” Frank assures. “Don’t worry about it.” Pete shrugs him off, so Frank grabs his shoulder, insisting, “Seriously! You really think you’re the first guy I’ve seen crying in a parked car? That’s just downright narcissistic!”

            Pete chuckles, finally, wiggling out from Frank’s touch nonetheless. He crosses his arms, staring a hole into the floor of the car as he asks, “Did I make a total idiot of myself back there?”

            Frank shakes his head, deciding, “No, the only real idiot was Urie.”

            “He’s not mad, is he?” Pete questions meekly.

            “No, man. He’s just mad at himself right now,” Frank replies. “He’s so stupid sometimes; he doesn’t even like that Tyler kid.”

            “Really?”

            Frank again shakes his head, continuing, “Well, he doesn’t hate him.” He picks at his fingernails, mumbling, “But he doesn’t love him, that’s for sure.”

            “Why so bitter?” Pete giggles. “That’s a good thing that he’s not interested.”

            “Not for me,” Frank mutters. “I mean, he’s really just screwing Tyler over and myself included.”

            “Wait you don’t, do you _like_ Tyler?” Pete asks.

            Frank shrugs, skin flushing as he confides, “Yeah, I think so.”

            “Do something about it,” Pete encourages.

            “I don’t know,” Frank hesitates. “I wouldn’t know what to say; I barely know the kid. Who’s even to say we have anything in common?”

            “Let’s make a deal,” Pete proposes.

            “What?”

            “You go in there and talk to this Tyler kid, and I’ll go talk with Brendon. We kind of have the same problem here; why not face it at the same time?” Pete reasons.

            Frank nods, agreeing, “Sure, yeah. You go sort out this mess with B, and I’ll go talk to Tyler.” A little more confident, he adds, “It’s just Tyler, a little freshman. What’s the worst thing that could happen, right?”

            “Yeah,” Pete replies. “It’s just Brendon. You know, dreamy, charming, totally drop dead gorgeous, Brendon.”

            “You’re losing sight of your goal,” Frank points out.

            “Right. Tell him. Just tell him!” Pete repeats the phrase like he’s trying to convince himself it’s a good idea.

            The two get out of the car, each slamming their own door before striding into the house. Frank beelines for the basement, assuming that’s where Tyler is, whereas Pete just paces the house, scanning crowds of intoxicated teens for a familiar wave of slicked dark hair.

            Meanwhile, Frank is searching frantically for the boy he calls Tyler, a boy with a toothy smile and soft dimples, a boy whose eyes radiate light. He rushes down to the basement, and sure enough, Tyler is there, currently participating in a game of Spin the Bottle. It seems that the game is just beginning, so of course it’s in Frank’s best interest to join.

            He sits across and a little to the left of Tyler, hoping that this will allow the bottle to land on him once or twice at Tyler’s hand.

            At Tyler’s first go, the bottle settles at no one other than Frank. Overlooking the grimaces and groans of surrounding players, Frank sees a sort of twinkle in Tyler’s glistening eyes as he leans across the group, planting a gentle kiss on Frank’s lips.

            It’s closed mouth, much to Frank’s disgruntlement. Of course, he wasn’t sure he’d want to French Tyler with so many onlookers, his yearning for the contact put to the side. Frank considers this one kiss to undoubtedly be a feat of incredible fortune, one that cannot be matched again.

            But, as always, Frank is proved wrong; Tyler’s spin lands in Frank’s direction two more times, sending the two into a nearby closet for an often sought but rarely implemented Seven Minutes in Heaven.

            Tyler hadn’t said a word as they were sent in there, but as soon as that door closes and the timer starts, he’s full of them. The glimmer in his eyes is lost; they’re now full of fear. “Look, I don’t uh… I…” Tyler’s voice becomes small, and he leans into the wall as he confides, “I’ve never really _been_ with a guy. Or… anyone.”

            “That’s okay,” Frank reassures. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

            “But isn’t that the point of the game?” Tyler asks timidly. “Aren’t we supposed to like… make out right now?”

            Frank shrugs, taking a step towards the boy, who almost flinches. “This game’s overrated.” Nodding towards the closet door, he adds, “Besides, the kids out there don’t expect us to do anything.”

            Tyler exhales, confessing, “That’s good; I feel a lot better now.” He sinks to the floor, raising his knees as an armrest. Frank sits next to him, asking, “Pardon me if it’s too personal, but weren’t you just kissing Urie?”

            Tyler blushes, scratching at the back of his head as he admits, “That… that was my first kiss.”

            Frank grins, and Tyler only reddens, complaining, “See, that’s why I didn’t want to tell you; I knew you’d just laugh at me.”

            “I’m not laughing, I swear,” Frank promises. “I just… I think it’s really sweet, that’s all.” Ducking his head, he elaborates, “As someone who lost their virginity at fifteen, I like the idea of taking things slow.”

            “Wow,” Tyler breathes. “Thanks.”

            Frank, pretending to inspect the peeling rubber of his shoe, tells, “I really like you, Tyler. Like, a lot.”

            Tyler smiles, putting a hand over Frank’s fidgeting fingers. “I like you, too.”


	11. Chapter 11

                       Pete, now in a wild pursuit of Brendon, is high tailing around the house, weaving through hallways and looping around rooms at a rapid pace. A couple kids shoot him weird looks, which normally kills him. This time it doesn’t matter though; he’s got his eyes on something more important, that thing being the potential relationship he and Brendon could have.

                  He hadn’t gone into any rooms, instead just making rounds through hallways with wide eyes. After an exceptionally tangible case of déjà vu (well, it must have been his fifth time or so in that hallway), he decides he better start knocking.

                  He doesn’t get replies from most, and from a few, a disgruntled teen with matted hair and lopsided clothing answers with some sort of comment regarding the scrunchie on the door handle. Pete apologizes profusely before pushing onto the next, and it’s not until he’s at one of the last rooms on the second floor that he reaches his goal.

                  This door had been slightly ajar, so Pete took that as an invitation to head right on in. He sees Brendon sitting on the edge of the bed, his back to him. He’s got his entire body hunched over, his hands clasped and head hung. He must not hear Pete; he stays like that some few moments before standing.

                  “Brendon,” Pete says softly.

                  Brendon jumps slightly, facing Pete. His eyes are swollen and tinged with crimson, his cheeks rosy. “I’m so sorry.”

                  Pete crosses the room, rushing into Brendon’s arms and hugging the taller boy. The two are at the height where Pete can just sort of burrow his head into Brendon’s chest, his skull serving as a suitable resting place for Brendon’s chin.

                  “It’s okay,” Pete assures. He withdraws slightly, leaning back to gaze up into Brendon’s eyes. Rising to his tippy toes, he plants a kiss on his lips, nibbling at his lower lip gently.

                  Brendon makes a kind of breathy growl, kissing back. He strings a hand into the back of Pete’s hair, gripping a fistful tightly. Another hand snakes its way down the younger teen’s back, eventually resting on his ass.

                  “The door,” Brendon murmurs, titling his head towards the open threshold. “Get the door.”

                  Pete nods, breaking the embrace momentarily to close the door, then springing himself back into Brendon’s arms.

                  The two continue to kiss, the breathing periods becoming less and less and the intensity growing almost exponentially. They settle onto the bed, Pete grabbing the tail of Brendon’s shirt and removing the garment. Brendon starts fumbling with his belt when Pete stops him, placing a coaxing hand over Brendon’s quivering fingers. “Let’s take it slower.”

                  Brendon swallows, solemnly removing his hands from the buckle. He looks into Pete’s eyes, gripping either side of his shirt and pulling it over his head slowly. Pete lets him toss the clothing to the side, then bringing himself into Brendon’s lap for another kiss.

                  The two make out for some twenty minutes. Their breaks for air become all the more frequent as their flaming passion settles to longing sparks. They lay their lazily for lord knows how long, eventually donning their clothing and returning downstairs a chore when they finally get around to it.

                  “Should we find Frank?” Brendon asks, slinging an arm over Pete’s shoulder.

                  Pete shrugs, agreeing, “Yeah, I guess we should leave pretty soon, huh?”

                  Brendon smiles and nods, mentioning, “I think he’s in the basement.”

                  “Who says he still is?” Pete reasons.

                  “It doesn’t hurt to check,” Brendon retorts with a wink. The two reach the door, which Brendon swings open before descending down the stairs, his assumed boyfriend in tow.

                  Sure enough, Frank is hanging around on the couch with Patrick. The two seem to be smoking weed, which Brendon claims is somewhat commonplace for Frank. Tyler sits a comfortable distance away from the thick, lingering smoke clouds, his hand outstretched to rest against Frank’s.

                  Upon seeing Brendon, Tyler becomes visibly tense, even his jaw tightening. Noticing this, Frank leans over, whispering something into the boy’s ear, which seems to comfort him; his muscles relax.

                  Taking this as a signal to move forward, Brendon pushes over, dragging Pete along behind him. “Hey, Iero, what’s the plan?”

                  Allowing a winding trail of smoke to leave his lips, Frank asks, “What plan?”

                  “Pete’s driving you home, right?” Brendon reminds.

                  Frank bobs his head droopily, muttering, “Yeah, we agreed on that.” Frank stands, the liquor in his body apparent as well as he presses a hand to Brendon’s chest. “ _You_ are following him home, pretty boy.”

                  Tyler tugs on Frank’s hand, motioning for him to sit. Frank just kisses his sloppily, telling, “I gotta go, babe.” In his hazed stupor, he manages to cup Tyler’s jaw gracefully, using his thumb to caress the boy’s cheek. “I’ll see you soon, alright?”

                  Tyler nods, his hand on Frank’s wrist. He gives it a small squeeze before letting go, those brown puppy eyes following the trio all the way out the door.

                  “What was that about, Frank?” Brendon chuckles.

                  “Pete wants you to spend the night,” Frank admits, the alcohol annihilating any judgment he may have. “He might want to have sex, I don’t know.”

                  Pete, blushing furiously, decks Frank in the arm. “Shut up!”

                  “OW!” Frank yowls, wrapping his hand over the sore area. He pouts, whining, “That hurt so bad.”

                  “I’ll show you hurt, Iero,” Brendon jokes, making Pete laugh, which makes Brendon laugh, which in turn, makes the drunk Frank join in.

                  Frank about falls down getting into the backseat of his own car, so Brendon takes the liberty of helping him in before getting in his own vehicle. Brendon has to take the lead; Frank’s shouting method of ambiguous directions weren’t effective.

                  Once they get there, Frank complains something awful about his legs being tired, so of course they have to haul the miniscule teen out of there and into his own home, because why wouldn’t they? Frank, zoning in and out of consciousness, allows his pants to fall halfway down his ass, revealing a good chunk of black boxer briefs.

                  “Christ, Iero,” Brendon grumbles, grabbing onto the waistband of Frank’s jeans and hiking them up for him. The two carry him up the stairs, lying him in his bed with a final heave.

                  “Goodnight, Frank,” Pete calls, winded from all the exertion.

                  “Goodnight,” Frank murmurs, drooling into his pillow already.

                  Pete and Brendon exit quietly, careful not to wake any other family members. Once they’re outside, Brendon asks, “So what is this about you wanting me to spend the night?”

                  Pete stammers, “O-only if you want to, I-I mean-”

                  Brendon interrupts with a peck on the cheek, reassuring, “I’d love to.”

                  With that, Brendon hops into the driver’s spot while Pete claims the passenger seat, driving off to Pete’s house with the radio buzzing along. 


	12. Chapter 12

                  Arriving at Pete’s house as the hours creep to morning, the two make their way up to his bedroom. Not wanting the situation to be inherently sexual, Pete suggests, “We could watch movies or something.”

                  Brendon shakes his head. “Nah, I might just crash right away. I’m pretty tired.”

                  Pete sits on his bed, chuckling as he admits, “I didn’t think that word was in your vocabulary.”

                  Brendon giggles, “What do you mean?”

                  Pete shrugs, answering, “I dunno, you’re just so energetic. Like not even lively, just full on hyperactive.”

                  “I have ADHD,” Brendon confides. “So, that’s where the hyperactivity is coming from.”

                  “Oh,” Pete murmurs. He hastily adds, “I-I have anxiety, so… yeah. I guess you have energy whereas I have… nervous energy.”

                  Brendon laughs softly, agreeing, “Yeah.”

                  “Look, that was stupid. What I meant to say is just that, I don’t care, alright? It doesn’t matter, you’re still B,” Pete assures. “I wouldn’t judge you for anything like that.”

                  “I know,” Brendon responds. “I’d be ticked if you did.” He starts unbuttoning his pants, and seeing Pete’s eyes widen, he explains, “I sleep in my underwear; I hope you don’t mind.”

                  Pete’s words come out fast and stumbling, “No not-not at all I mean I want you to be comfortable by all means go ahead.”

                  Brendon smirks slightly, bringing his jeans down to his ankles. As he peels off the dark denim, revealing his ghastly pale thighs, Pete can’t help but think of Brendon’s demeanor, this sort of rough outer shell that hides a really sweet guy.

                  “I’m pale, I know,” Brendon chuckles softly. “I spend a lot of time inside, surprise, surprise.”

                  Pete reaches out a hand, clasping it with Brendon’s. “It’s cute. Kinda endearing, you know?” He reaches a hand around the taller boy, smacking his ass as he adds, “Those black Joe Boxers are nice, too.”

                  Stifling a laugh, Brendon nods. “I can tell you’re not wanting to wind down.”

                  “Not yet,” Pete admits, lying back. Again, wanting to avoid any sexual encounters, he adds, “I might watch a movie while you doze off.”

                  “Which movie?” Brendon asks. Timidly, he hunches over and gets into bed with Pete, pulling the covers up to his chest. He leans into the teen a bit, pressing his upper torso against Pete’s.

                  “Dunno,” Pete answers honestly. He grabs the remote, opening Netflix. “I might just rewatch something, honestly. That’s all I do nowadays.”

                  “So boring,” Brendon scolds. “You should try new things.”

                  Gazing over into the boy’s eyes, Pete orders, “Well, why don’t you suggest something then, Mr. Critical?”

                  Brendon contemplates this, biting his bottom lip for a few seconds. “Give me the remote, you rat.”

                  Pete scoffs, “Who are you calling a rat?” He hands over the remote nonetheless.

                  “I made myself very clear,” Brendon teases. He opens the search bar, finally bringing up the X Files.

                  “Oh god, is this some stupid space show?” Pete groans, burying his face in his hands.

                  “No! It is about aliens and paranormal phenomena and it is absolute art,” Brendon insists, pressing play. “One episode and you’ll be hooked.”

                  “I’m only watching because Mulder’s cute,” Pete grumbles, lowering his hands to reveal his eyes.

                  The two lay there, snuggling slightly as they watch. Brendon seems to be zoning in and out of consciousness throughout the duration of the episode, and when Pete excitedly starts the next, he gives a particularly loud yawn. With that, he rolls over into Pete’s chest, murmuring sleepily, “I think I’m going to sleep now.”

                  Pete, slinging an arm over the taller teen, props his head up, ready to watch the next episode as Brendon finally falls asleep.

                  As Pete watches the show, he can’t help but be distracted with Brendon there and all. The kid is like a fucking radiator; even if Pete didn’t look at him, he’d surely feel the heat coming off his body in waves. Sticking a bare foot out from under the blankets to cool off, Pete gazes over at the boy, who is now into a deep slumber. His dark eyelashes are stark against his fair skin, his lips partly agape as he snores softly. His hair is everywhere, falling in strands down his face as the gel loses its grip.

                  He is truly beautiful. Pete considers just how lucky he is to have him. A week ago, Pete would have settled for some scummy boy more out of loneliness than an actual love, that or he would’ve gotten with some sort of older asshole of a guy just to get laid. But with Brendon, he doesn’t have to worry about any of that. He knows that they belong to each other and that it’s right, that it’s exactly what he wants. His happiness in the relationship will never be an issue; he’s ecstatic just to have landed in the position in the first place. As far as Brendon’s personality goes, Pete is learning more and more every day. It isn’t like Brendon is ambiguous for the sake of being ambiguous (is anyone?), but he has this sort of wall he’d put up around himself. Anything he thinks is too personal or vulnerable he covers, masking what is a thoughtful, sensitive guy with a hyperactive goofball. It isn’t exactly him; the clown inside of him isn’t the only facet to his personality. Then again, it’ll just have to do, because he’d rather the guys at school call him a basket case than a pussy. He may not be taken seriously, but at least he’s not being shoved around, well, at least not as much as he potentially could be.

                  Yeah, those guys mess with him. Outside of Pete, no one knows. It’s between Brendon and his bullies, and Brendon is guaranteed that at least one party won’t tell. Pete wants him to tell Frank and Patrick but… he’s not sure he can do that. By telling them about being a bullying victim, he’d be giving up this hardened exterior, the one that adds emotional distance, but also provides a level of safety.

                  Pete knows that, too. He knows that Brendon is scared, scared to actually own up to his feelings. He’s never been emotional and he’s never been soft; he’s not like Pete. This sort of rigid, distant persona is all he knows.

                  So, it’ll take some work. Pete is confident that he can get Brendon out of his shell; he’s always liked a challenge, and just like Pete has never been one to give up, Brendon has never been one to disappoint.

                 

                 

                 

                 


	13. Chapter 13

                Pete spent a lot of time that night thinking about Brendon’s situation. He came to a conclusion, one that he knew Brendon wouldn’t be happy with. The next morning, he clings onto that thing for as long as he can before finally launching his new agenda onto Brendon.

                “Here’s an idea,” Pete proposes. The two are sitting at the Wentz’s dining room table, shoveling in spoonful after spoonful of Count Chocula before Brendon has to leave.

                “Lay it on me.” Brendon is complacent, more focused on the maze on the back of the cereal box than anything else at the moment.

                “How about you tell Frank and Patrick about what’s going on with those guys?” Pete suggests slowly. Seeing Brendon tense up, he reaches for the boy’s hands, grasping them gently. “It’ll be fine.”

                Brendon shakes his head vehemently, insisting, “I dunno, man. I really like to keep these things to myself.”

                “Please?” Pete begs.

                “What good will come from it?” Brendon demands. “It’s not like they can do anything.”

                “You know what, maybe they can,” Pete reasons. “Maybe you’re just too scared to try.”

                Brendon exhales heavily, frowning. “I just don’t know, Pete. How will I even tell them?”

                “It doesn’t matter,” Pete assures. “Just however, as long as it’s out there.” He takes a final slurp of the chocolatey milk pooling in the bottom of his bowl, resolving, “If you don’t tell them by the end of school Monday, then I will.”

                Brendon sits there, pouting. He doesn’t fight Pete; he just sits there and mopes. “Iero will make fun of me.”

                Pete scoffs, “Is that what all this is about?”

                Brendon bobs his head, answering, “Well, yeah. I mean, it’s embarrassing in itself but… I don’t want Frank to be a dick, alright?” He rests his chin on the table, adding, “I don’t see what’s so strange about not wanting to be treated like that.”

                “Listen,” Pete orders. He reaches across the table, cupping a hand around Brendon’s jaw. “I promise you that Frank will be just fine, alright?” He smiles, raising his eyebrows. “Okay?”

                Brendon finally nods, and Pete adds for good measure, “If he isn’t, I’ll knock his 100-pound ass to Pluto.”

                Pete’s not sure just how helpful this is, but at least it gets a grin out of Brendon. He doesn’t want to resort to ratting his boyfriend out to his friends; he never wants to be that guy. Part of him wonders if he would even confess the whole thing to Frank or Patrick if it came down to it. It’s just something that Brendon has to deal with himself, plain and simple. Not meaning to intrude on that, Pete merely gave a deadline. Knowing Brendon, the kid could procrastinate, but nothing got him more motivated than a flame under his ass.

                Brendon must’ve been feeling particularly singed on that Monday morning, because he owns up to it surprisingly quickly. In fact, it wasn’t even first hour, or even close. It was a full twenty minutes before the first bell, not long after the gang had gathered in the vocal room, per usual.

                “Can I tell you guys something?” Brendon begins.

                Patrick, having been entirely consumed in a game of Yahtzee on his phone, sets it down, murmuring, “Yeah, man.”

                Frank nods as well, abandoning the string he had been pulling on his hoodie.

                “I uh…” Brendon’s brown eyes dart from person to person, then lowering to the ground. “I… I’m being bullied. Actually, I’ve _been_ being bullied. Been, as in like, past tense, but not entirely past tense, because it’s still going on. Maybe I used the wrong word. What I’m trying to say is-”

                “We get it,” Frank cuts in. “We know, Brendon. You don’t have to explain yourself; it’s okay.”

                “What do you mean ‘you know?’” Brendon asks defensively.

                “He means that we understand,” Patrick assures. “It’ll be alright, man, just relax.”             

                “Don’t tell me what to do,” Brendon retorts.

                “I wasn’t,” Patrick grumbles.

                “It sure sounded like it,” Brendon growls, standing.

                “Look, can we all just chill?” Pete pleads. “Please? Can’t we just talk about this?”

                “Does Brendon want to?” Frank considers, gesturing towards the boy.

                “There’s nothing to talk about,” Brendon spits, leaving the room hotly.

                He slams the door behind him, leaving the remaining trio sitting in stunned silence.

                “Shiiiiiiiiit,” Pete grimaces.

                “That went well,” Patrick says sarcastically.

                “Shut your trap,” Frank snaps.

                Another stony silence is endured. Finally, Pete stands, deciding, “I should really go talk to him.”

                “Best of luck to you,” Patrick wishes.

                “Yeah, good luck, dude,” Frank agrees.

                Pete nods, exiting the room. He jogs down the hallway, searching left and right for Brendon. There’s no way he went that far, is there? Pete circles the empty corridor, stopping once he hears a shoe squeak behind a bathroom door.

                The bathroom is this dingy single use thing that the theater kids use. It’s boarded off periodically, locked due to vandalism and general misuse. This is not one of those times, since Brendon’s currently crying in there.

                Pete knocks on the wood softly, asking, “Brendon?” He tries the handle, realizing it’s locked. “Can I come in?” He hears sobbing, followed by sniffling, followed by footsteps. Brendon opens the door, his eyes puffed and red. He stands there, eyes all watery and lips big and body drooped.   
                “Jesus, B,” Pete sighs, hugging the boy as he closes the door behind him.

                The two sit silently for some time, Pete against the wall, legs spread, and Brendon in between Pete’s legs. Pete plays with Brendon’s hair absently, eventually breaking the silence with, “Iero didn’t give you hell.”

                “I almost wish he did,” Brendon confides. “Anything would have been better than that.”

                “What was so bad about it?” Pete asks. “I thought things were going fine.”

                Brendon disagrees, “No, man, it was awkward and forced and embarrassing and weird. I hated it.”

                Pete considers this, responding, “At least they care.”

                Brendon hangs his head, groaning, “Maybe I’m making too big of a deal out of this.”

                “Oh, you definitely are,” Pete answers. Before Brendon goes on the defensive mode, Pete adds, “But that’s okay; we all do. If you just take it easy, things will be so much better. Stop focusing on the bad and stop amplifying the undesirable. All in all, it went okay.” Pete plants a kiss at the nape of Brendon’s neck. “Alright?”

                Brendon nods, leaning back further into the boy. “Yeah, alright.”


	14. Chapter 14

Once the bell rings, Pete has to part from his boyfriend, who is still sniffling between his legs. Pete stands, then pulling Brendon to his feet, giving him one last hug. He smooths over some of Brendon's ruffled bangs, reminding, "I'll see you in psych second hour. Okay?"

Brendon nods, sighing, "Yeah, okay." His eyes are still hazed with a pinkish glow. Pete hopes no one makes fun of him; Brendon has gym first hour. 

"Text me if things go south," Pete orders, kissing the back of Brendon's hand. He cradles Brendon's large hands in his own smaller ones before squeezing them, finally departing for English class. 

Pete is so worried about Brendon that class, he can't fit in his normally scheduled worrying. Often, he'll spend the class with his mouth sewn shut, afraid to say something stupid. After that "me too" fiasco on the first day, everyone in there takes him as a joke. The last thing Pete needs is to say something dumb and remind them of what an ass he makes of himself. 

But that day, he doesn't  _need_ to say anything to make an ass out of himself. No, a boy in the seat across from him does a fine job on his own. He taps Pete's hand with a pencil, getting his attention immediately. Gesturing at Pete's fingernails, currently painted black, the boy asks, "Did you paint your nails like that? Huh, Peter?"

Pete turned a little red, bringing his head back to the front just in time to hear the boy scoff softly, but loud enough to reach nearby ears, "Fag."

And the snickering ensues. Why must it always be directed at him? Ms. Kruse is writing on the board, and Pete would give anything for her to turn around and start talking already. He needs this, for the love of Christ. These kids are bored, under-stimulated, and its those times that they decide to pick on kids like Pete. 

Another tap on the hand. "You hang out with that Urie kid?" The question comes from the same boy who'd teased him about his nails.

Pete doesn't answer, or even look his way. A strong part of him knows where this is going. Brendon is flamboyant, to say the least. These boys know that, and they'll scrutinize him for it. No wonder Brendon represses all of his feelings; put sensitive with flamboyant, and they'd never leave him alone. 

"He's just a faggot," the boy sneered. "He'd blow a guy for loose change." Leaning in closer, the boy adds quietly, just enough for Pete to hear, "He looks super cute when he's crying." 

That's when the connection is made. That asshole is one of the clowns bullying Brendon. What Pete wants is to unleash all of his pent up fury on the boy, right then, right there, while the rest of the class cheers him on. 

But he can't. So he just swallows, keeping his eyes fixed on the front of the room. 

Ms. Kruse finally starts speaking again, but that boy won't stop staring at Pete. It's not until she mentions a new project that his gaze breaks. 

Pete perks up, too. He's always liked projects; that is, so long as he's not the one to do all the work (which happens more often than not. He's too nice to say no or tell them to get to work!) No, Pete's excited. It's not until he hears the phrase "oral presentation" that he reverts to his regular  miserable self. 

A five minute speech. She had to be joking. Pete can do a lot of things in five minutes, but speak in front of a metaphorical shark tank is not one of them. They'll laugh; he knows they'll laugh. And then he'll have to march through them to get to his seat and maybe someone will stick their foot out and Pete will definitely be dumb enough to take the bait. Every once of anger that was directed at that boy is now nerves oriented around this damn speech. Maybe he can pretend he doesn't speak English well. That, or say he has a rare condition that limits his sentence length. He's got to come up with something, and the bad ideas are coming thick and fast. 

He can't wait to get out of there. All but running to his next class, he actually beats Brendon there, for once. That's something new; usually Brendon is the first kid in the room. Pete should take that as a bad sign, but in his own turmoil, he doesn't. 

Brendon's late. Brendon, the boy who has had not a single tardy in all of his high school career, is ten minutes late. He comes in looking disheveled. He stands at the back of the room while he's scolded by the teacher, his head bowed and thumb and forefinger nervously pinching at the seam of his pants. 

Mr. Woodward must decide to give the kid a break, that, or he deems Brendon totally unresponsive, because he stops chewing him out. He doesn't even mark him as tardy. No, he just orders, "Take a seat, Mr. Urie. Nice of you to join us."

Brendon does as he's told, briskly walking over and sitting next to Pete. Upon closer inspection, Pete can tell exactly why his boyfriend is late. From the busted lip to the tissue stuffed into his nose, it's clear and simple: he got beat up. Why, that's still not known. Mostly, Pete wants to know if he's okay, and not being able to talk about it the entire period while Brendon sits there bleeding is a kind of torture. 

The bell rings after what feels like a century and Brendon bolts to his feet, cutting across the room to the door. Pete about falls over trying to keep up, snatching his things and chasing after him. 

Pete catches up with him at the boy's bathroom and grabs the sleeve of his sweatshirt, forcing him to look him in the eye. Now he can see that his eye is bruised as well; Pete didn't notice what with only one side of Brendon's face having been visible. Pete sighs, "Oh, honey."

Brendon pulls back, making Pete drop his grip on his arm. He stares at the ground, his eyes wide and watery. It feels like a long time before he speaks, and when he finally does, his voice is boyish and small. "Pete? If I go home, will you come with me?"

Pete bites his lip, considering his options. He could lie about a doctor's appointment, maybe, and Brendon could pull some crap about being ill (which isn't far from the truth, in fact.) That, or he could leave his boyfriend on his own, maybe never getting the full story behind his battered face. 

Taking one of his hands, Pete gives it a squeeze, telling, "Let's leave."


	15. Chapter 15

Pete doesn't like the idea of Brendon driving in his battered state, so he snaps his fingers at his boyfriend, ordering, "Keys. Gimme."

Brendon furrows his brows, walking alongside Pete to his car. "No, piss off. I like to drive."

"Boy, you are in no condition to drive," Pete reasons. "You look concussed."

Brendon frowns. "I  _do not_ have a concussion."

Pete raises his hands defensively, insisting, "No offense, but you do not look good." He pouts, taking Brendon's hand. "Just let me drive, okay?" Sticking out his lower lip, he looks up at Brendon with the biggest brown eyes he can manage, pleading, "Please?"

Brendon rolls his own, tossing the keys at Pete. They bounce off his chest and land in his outstretched palms. Closing his hands tightly around them, he fights the urge to relish in the glory of winning the small argument. Had he been in a playful mood, he would have gone for it, but every time he feels like things are normal, one glance at Brendon's facce reminds him things are far from okay. This is no time for joking, no time for teasing, no time for spontaneity. Brendon needs him now, all of him, not just the goofy side. Pete holds off on the jokes to try to assure Brendon that he's ready to listen. 

Pete opens the door for Brendon when they reach the car, who is too tired to give Pete a strange look. He just climbs in slowly and allows Pete to close the door for him as well. Jogging over to the other side, Pete hops into the front seat, putting the keys in the ignition and starting the car. 

Peeking over at him, Pete asks, "So what happened?"

He's pulling out of the parking lot now; the gravel of the parking lot churns beneath rubber as the greens of the vegetation blurs with speed. Brendon shrugs, bringing his drooped shoulders up and down laboriously. 

Pete's eyes dart over briefly. "Come on, now. Something happened back there."

Brendon removes the bloodied tissue from his nostrils, balling up the scraps and tossing them in an empty water bottle. Brendon's car is mostly clean, and always is, except for the occasional empty water bottle or stray CD. "It was two of those guys. I have gym with them."

"And?" Pete pries.

Brendon sighs, confessing, "I went in the locker room with my eyes all red and they knew something was up. So they made fun of me a bit, nothing too bad. Your name came up." 

"Really?" Pete asks. "What'd they say?"

Brendon's cheeks go pink as he admits, "They were being dumb, you know. Just... said a lot of stuff about you and I and if we were fucking and..." Brendon shakes his head, continuing, "Everyone in there was listening and... it was so embarrassing." 

"So, what'd you do?" 

"I left," Brendon answers simply. 

Pete bobs his head, cutting in, "But it didn't end there."

"God, I wish it would have," Brendon mutters. "So we played dodgeball during class, and those two jackasses kept nailing me, which wasn't anything new." He picks at his nails, proceeding, "It wasn't until we got back down to the locker room that things got heated." 

"What happened?" Pete asks. He makes the turn for Brendon's house, eyeing the street carefully so as not to miss his driveway. 

"Well, they kept giving me shit! So finally, I got fed up with it and told them to fuck off, that they were assholes, and to leave me alone," Brendon responds. 

"And that's what pissed them off?" Pete remarks incredulously. 

The corner of Brendon's bloodied lip upturns as he adds, "That, and when I told them to suck my cock."

Pete's jaw drops. He's in Brendon's driveway by now, but no way is he risking leaving if it means missing part of the story. "So, then what?"

"Then," Brendon begins, "Then he slammed my head into a locker. And I crouched over and held it, and so he uppercut me in the mouth."

Pete's eyes grow exponentially as Brendon tells the whole story, not leaving out any gory details. Pete's astonished by this, proud, in fact. Usually Brendon is so unwilling to talk about this stuff, but there he is, opening up without having to be told. When he's finished, he looks like he's going to cry again. 

"B," Pete coaxes. He reaches a hand over and takes one of Brendon's, giving it a squeeze. He smiles kind of sadly, gazing into that boy's deep brown eyes. "Let's go inside, okay?"

Brendon nods, breaking Pete's grasp to leave the car. Pete follows Brendon inside up to his room, which is oddly cool for being in what must be the attic. 

Brendon slumps onto his bed, his face still mopey. He lays on his back, arms stretched over his head. His shirt peeks up just enough to show a hint of skin, a trace of his hip, and the white waistband of his underpants. Pete joins him, cuddling in next to the taller boy on his side. They lay there in silence for some time before Brendon finally says, "I have to shower." 

With that he stands, and Pete decides that now is the time for joking as he teases, "What, without me?"

Brendon, his back turned as he gathers some clothing from his dresser, offers, "Wanna join?"

Pete freezes, blushing like mad. By the time Brendon turns to face him, he's probably a tomato. "I... uh..."

"Sure, we haven't been dating for that long but... who cares?" Brendon leans in over Pete, planting a kiss on the tip of his nose. "What's a little shower gonna hurt?"

Pete, still red, stammers, "I... um... I don't have anything to change into."

Tossing article after article of clothing at Pete, Brendon lists, "Shirt, pajama bottoms, undies."

Unhooking the leg of the white briefs from around his ear, Pete holds them like how a person would a dirty Kleenex. "Tighty whities, Brendon?"

Brendon laughs, turning a bit pink himself as he admits, "They're dorky, I know. I just hate laundry; been running a tad low on drawers lately."

Feeling more relaxed, Pete stands, making the decision then. Yes, he will shower with his boyfriend. And at that moment, he doesn't care if his parents would be mad, if those bullies would have some wise words, or even if his own friends would tease him. Let them rage, let them talk, let them mock. All that matters is he and Brendon at that moment, and something tells him that's the way it should be.


	16. Chapter 16

Pete follows Brendon down to the bathroom, holding hands all the while. Brendon leads him into the small room and starts peeling off his shirt. Pete closes the door behind them, then bringing his own shirt over his head. 

As his head is entangled in the cotton mess that is his t shirt, Pete feels a warm hand on his lower abs. He smiles through the fabric, finally wrestling it off as he asks, "Brendon Boyd Urie, just what are you doing?"

Brendon just grins, tickling his fingers over Pete's stomach. "I like your happy trail, that's all." He withdraws his hand to cup it around Pete's jaw, squeezing it slightly as he pats one cheek. "You're cute."

Pete kisses Brendon on the cheek, retorting, "You're cuter."

"Agreed," Brendon jokes, moving away. He starts working on his belt, and Pete is thankful he never bothers with the things as he pulls his pants down to his ankles. Stepping out of the pile of denim, he kicks them to the side, leaving him in his blue boxer briefs and socks. He takes off each sock, stealing glances as Brendon takes his pants off, standing in a pair of yellow American Apparel briefs as he balls them up and tosses them to the floor. 

Then, wow, it's the moment of truth. The question isn't whether or not it'll happen, but it's who will go first. Who is brave enough to remove their underwear first, putting their naked self totally on display? But it doesn't end there; when they're naked, they're totally vulnerable, open for judgment. Trust is key, and Brendon knows this, so he's the first to strip off his underwear, only blushing slightly as he stands nude. Pete does his best not to stare, but his gay little heart can only take so much. 

Brendon  moves past Pete to start fiddling with the shower, desperate to busy his hands to take his mind off of his... well..  _nakedness._

Pete scoots around his boyfriend, not failing to sneak a glimpse of his pale ass as he gets naked himself. He sort of gathers the pair's clothes and sets them in the corner, looking up to see that Brendon is already in the shower. Pete heads over, careful not to slip as he joins him.

Pete enters towards the back of the tub to see Brendon standing at the front wetting his hair. God, is he beautiful. He's facing Pete, which is nice, and his eyes are shut as his fingers thread through his wet hair. 

Wrapping his arms around Brendon in a hug, Pete plants a kiss in the center of his boyfriend's chest. Brendon smiles, resting his chin on top of Pete's damp hair as one hand snakes around the shorter boy's hip, landing finally on his ass. 

"You... are so....." Pete builds up the tension. His words are muddled and soft in the wet of Brendon's skin. Grinning, he meets Brendon's eyes, finishing, "Pale."

Brendon giggles, squeaking, "Shut up! I don't tan well. Or... at all."

Pete chuckles himself, breaking the hug. He moves around Brendon, ordering, "Let me through, I have to wash my hair." 

Brendon brings a hand through Pete's bangs, nevertheless inching around to allow Pete to the stream of water. Pete is smitten as he uses some of Brendon's shampoo (jasmine, would you imagine?)

Over the rush of the water, Pete hears Brendon laughing. Opening one eye, Pete demands, "What?"

"That's my sister's shampoo," Brendon informs, still laughing. Pete reddens, and Brendon brings a hand up and down Pete's side, assuring, "It'll make your hair smell good, though."

"You have siblings?" Pete asks, desperate to move past the fact that he'd used the heavily scented shampoo. 

Brendon nods, holding up four fingers. 

"Jesus," Pete remarks. "I mean, I have a couple and that's bad enough. I'm the oldest, too, so it must suck even more for them."

"I'm the youngest," Brendon tells. He slides by Pete, starting to lather up his own hair. 

Pete pinches one of Brendon's cheeks. "You're the baby?"

Brendon squirms away, smiling still. He responds in the same mocking voice, "Yes, I'm the baby."

Pete rinses before reaching for conditioner, pumping some into his hands. He's working it through his hair when Brendon asks, "You use conditioner?"

"Well, yeah," Pete answers. Clearing it away with water, he adds, "I have thick, curly hair."

Brendon's eyes double. "You have curly hair?" When Pete nods, Brendon coos, "Aww! I want to see it!"

"You will once we get out of here and it starts drying," Pete tells. 

"I didn't know you have curly hair," Brendon tells.

"I'm half-black," Pete answers. When Brendon looks confused, he explains, "My mom's Jamaican."

Brendon bobs his head, adding, "Curly hair is so cute. I wish I had it."

Pete shakes his head vehemently, insisting, "Trust me, you don't."

The two stand silently for a while, each focused on the body wash soaping up their skin. It brings a comfortable sort of quiet, a nice break from the hectic modern pace. 

"Pardon my French, but you're hung as shit," Brendon shares. 

Pete blushes wildly, bringing a hand over his cock, as if to shield it from Brendon's lustful eyes. "Pervert!"

"I'm your boyfriend!" Brendon chuckles. "Besides, it was a compliment." He pulls Pete's hand away. "No need to get all bashful."

Pete can't help but notice one thing about Brendon at that moment, and he considers using it against him. Brendon is, well, less than average. Not by a ton, but by enough to quickly notice. Pete could fire back something about this, but he decides it's too mean. After all, it's practically Brendon's manhood he'd be taking shots at. 

"I'm small, I know," Brendon admits. "That's the way it is; I'm over it. I've been told I'm a grower, not a shower."

Pete bursts out laughing, almost to the point of tears. Brendon joins in, demanding jokingly, "What, you having a giggle at me?" He grabs Pete's wrists, swiveling Pete's hips against the wall, his wrists pinned above his head. Pete can feel himself go hard, and Brendon takes immediate notice. Hovering a hand over Pete's dick, Brendon asks, "You okay if..."

Pete nods vigorously, his cock practically throbbing. He's surprised he's stayed flaccid for so long; he should have seen the boner coming. 

Brendon eyes his boyfriend as he brings a hand to Pete's shaft, moving it up and down slowly. He continues to pump, gradually dropping to his knees. Teasing the head with the tip of his tongue, he massages the base, then taking it all in. 

Halfway through, Brendon starts to jerk off himself, and Pete knows exactly what he'd meant by "grower not a shower." Lacing some fingers in Brendon's wet hair, Pete groans softly, "Fuck."

Brendon smiles, knowing that Pete is enjoying the blowjob. Brendon's experienced a handful himself, and to him, the only thing better is being able to do that to someone else.

Pete finally comes, whimpering lowly as Brendon spits it toward the drain. Beaming up at his boyfriend, Brendon allows his hand to relax on his own cock, bringing himself down from the state of excitement. 

The two step out of the shower, getting dressed before heading back to Brendon's room. There, they spend the remainder of the night, lounging around and exchanging gentle kisses.  


	17. Chapter 17

Pete goes home that night, his afternoon spent with Brendon replaying in his mind. It’s a constant highlight reel, looping over and over. This leaves him smug the entire night, the swelling in his stomach and groin he’d earlier felt still lingering. Pete texts Brendon: going to school tomorrow?

It’s a very short time before Brendon replies, the message heavily laden with emojis. Pete’s gotten used to his boyfriend’s texting style, the excessive exclamation and emoji usage. It’s endearing, he decides. Brendon’s message reads: yeah, guess I have to, don’t I?

There’s a pause in the conversation, followed by another text from Brendon: could I come to your place afterward? Meet up with you after our last class? I’m… I’m nervous. About those guys, I mean. Marching around the school all beat up will be bad enough; I don’t need those jerks harassing me on top of that.

Pete responds: Sure thing, B. Meet me at my locker, okay?

The last text of the night, just one single “okay” hand emoji from Brendon.

They can try all they want to prepare, but sometimes, it’s just not enough.

The day starts off pretty fair. Brendon picks up Pete in the morning so as to avoid walking in the school all alone, black eye and all. They meet up with their gang in the vocal room, per usual. What’s new is the fact that Tyler is in there with them, perched in Frank’s lap as he allows the shorter boy to play with his hair.

The three boys’ eyes meet Brendon and Pete as they offer greeting smiles.

“Jesus H Christ, Urie,” Patrick gasps. “What happened? You look like shit. No offense, of course.”

“Not that you look bad,” Frank cuts in. “You’re beautiful. Just…”

Tyler adds, “You look like you got hit by a truck.”

Brendon, along with everyone else in the room, is astonished that he and Tyler are even on speaking terms. After all, Brendon had truly screwed the poor kid over at the party. To make matters worse, he took the boy’s first kiss, something Tyler probably could have given to Frank instead.

Pete nudges Brendon’s foot with the toe of his shoe, urging him to answer. Brendon blinks, tells earnestly, “I got beat up.”

Patrick claps sarcastically, asking, “What’d you do to piss them off?”

Pete, ready to tell Patrick to cut it out, is interrupted by Brendon, who chuckles, “I don’t want to talk about it.” The two take a seat, and the group’s usual conversation resumes as though nothing had happened.

After that speed bump, the day is rather normal. Pete suffers through his English class before joining Brendon in psychology, eager to see him again. Brendon complains about how many people mask their nosiness by fabricating concern for Brendon’s injuries. Those kids probably already know the truth before they open their mouths, they only want to hear it from the loser himself, is what Brendon says.

At lunch is when things go from okay to slightly less okay. It’s not directed at Brendon, for a change, but Frank. It’s Gerard, no surprise there, but the surprise is in the ferocity of how he storms over, slamming a fist into Frank’s stomach.

Frank clutches at his gut, his face twisted in pain. Tyler tenses next to him, brings an arm around the boy’s waist. Tyler wants to help, but this Gerard kid could easily take him, so all he can do is just sit there and try to comfort his boyfriend later.

“Fuck you, Iero,” Gerard snarls. “You’ve gone too fucking far.”

Frank, doubled over onto the table, wheezes, “ _What_ are you talking about?!”

Taking a fistful of Frank’s shirt, Gerard pulls the smaller teen close, growling in a low voice, “You told everyone about us. Now no one will leave me alone. This is all your fault.”

“I didn’t!” Frank insists. “Gerard, I would never do that!” Wringing himself free from Frank’s grip, he adds hastily, “Besides, it’s not my fault you’re getting bullied.”

Gerard narrows his eyes, glaring at Frank. “You think you have dirt on me, Iero? Think you can blackmail me?” He shakes his head, snarling, “I have so much shit about you that I could spread around the school.”

Frank’s eyes go wide, and he begs in a childish, near-crying voice, “Gerard, please! I swear I didn’t do anything. Don’t do this!”

Gerard stares him down coldly. “Remember that you started this.” With that, he’s gone, pulling his phone from his back pocket as he leaves.

Frank, eyes watery, buries his head in his arms. Tyler rubs his back, unsure of what to do. Desperate to make him feel better, Tyler reasons, “Look, whatever he says can’t be that bad. Right?”

Frank shakes his head, raising his chin as he wipes his nose on his sleeve. “You don’t get it. It’s not that bad, I swear but...” He dips his head, crying, “Everyone in this school will never let me hear the end of it.”

Pete never feels as useless as he does in that moment, watching his friend cry across the table. He wants to get out of there; he needs to, so much so that when the bell rings, he gladly bolts to his next class.

That’s the last he hears from Frank for the rest of the day. It’s hard to tell whether or not Gerard has said anything, but he’s sure that Frank will know within moments. Pete hangs by his locker, smiling when he sees Brendon. As the two walk, Pete asks, “How’s Frank?”

Brendon shrugs, answering, “Okay, I guess. I still don’t know if Gerard’s said anything, or if he was just bluffing.”

“I sure hope the latter,” Pete sighs.

As they’re passing the locker room, the two are ambushed by the very guys Brendon was so worried about. They're surrounded, pinned to the walls, and eventually dragged into the locker room, where torment surely awaits them. 


	18. Chapter 18

“Guess what we found?" one of the boys exclaims. He rubs his hands together eagerly, joking, “There's so much emo ass to kick that I can't choose where to start.”

  
“Go away!” Brendon snaps, voice cracking. Shit, if he starts crying, Pete will probably start crying. That's no good; two crying boys in a room full of predators.

  
Shoving harshly against Brendon's chest, another boy barks, “You really sound like a faggot when you talk, Brendon.”

  
Pete puts himself between the two, ordering, “Get away from him.” The boy makes somewhat of a goofy, mocking face at him, so Pete adds coldly, “I mean it.”

  
“And who are you supposed to be?”

  
Brendon's hand sort of clutches on the back of Pete's shirt, his knuckles going white. He's giving Pete pleading eyes, but his boyfriend has his back to him as Pete informs, “I'm his boyfriend, asshole.”

  
Brendon hangs his head. Big mistake there, Pete.

  
The kid bursts out laughing, challenging, “Are you now?”

  
When Pete nods, the kid grips onto Pete's shoulder tightly, squeezing until Pete's brought to his knees. “Just what are you going to do about it? Tell us some poetry?”

  
“Maybe,” Pete scoffs mirthlessly. “I know I'm not strong enough to fight you guys but...” Pete looks back at Brendon, sees the tears glistening in the boy's wide eyes. Pete swallows, offers, “Do whatever to me, just leave him alone.”

  
Faking an exaggerated swoon, the boy mock sobs, “That is just so sweet!” Kicking Pete squarely in the chest, he orders the others, “Grab his arms.”

  
Pete doesn't struggle, just allows the boys to pin him to the floor. One breaks away to hold back Brendon, who is yelling and trying to help Pete.

  
Pete lays there passively as the punches roll. They land at his stomach mainly, a few limb shots here and there. Perhaps they didn't want to leave such obvious marks like they had on Brendon; marks like that cause so much buzz.

  
Pete's taking it the best he can, finally falling to his side as he's released. He's aching everywhere; the lining of his stomach is raw. He groans as he slams a fist against the ground, sharp pain surging throughout.

It's then that he feels the rising discomfort, hears the sound of stretching elastic. Desperate to get away, he squirms against it, but it's kinda like the hands of death; once they got a grip, you're done for.

  
Dipping his head into the cold ground, he instinctually reaches a hand around to his ass, grabbing it without relief.

“Tighty whities, nice!”

  
Pete blushes furiously; he'd forgotten he's wearing Brendon's last resort underwear. If only his boyfriend did more laundry.

  
Part of the waistband tears and they’re satisfied, leaving in a pack. The one who had been restraining Brendon threads his hands through Brendon's hair, instilling fear in the boy.

  
Once they're gone, Brendon snakes over, kissing Pete. “I love you and I'm sorry.”

  
Pete only kisses one of Brendon's fists, assuring, “I love you, too.”

  
After spending what feels like a long time on the floor, the pair rises, finally heading towards the parking lot.

  
“Sorry about your underwear,” Pete murmurs, exposing some of the torn fabric. He pulls at it, ripping the waistband clear off. He swings it around his finger, telling, “It's cute how your initial is marked in here.”

  
Brendon reddens and reaches for the fabric, ordering, “Give me that!”

  
Pete holds it behind his back, sticking his tongue out.

  
Brendon, bringing some grazing hands over Pete's sides, asks, “Ticklish?”

  
Lying, Pete keeps a straight face, that is, until Brendon's hand finally finds Pete's weak spot.

  
Laughing, Pete squirms away, bringing the two to the ground, where they start to wrestle.

  
Brendon, being taller and stronger, is able to pin Pete on his back, gazing down into the boy’s eyes.

  
They stare at each other in silence for a moment until Brendon's phone goes off, his damn Anaconda ringtone filling the air. Pete, breaking from Brendon's loosened hold, snatches the phone from his boyfriend’s back pocket, answering, “Hello, this is doge.”

  
Brendon lets Pete go, rolling his eyes.

  
Pete speaks into the receiver, “Yep. Mmhm. Okay. Bye.”

  
He hangs up, telling Brendon, “It was Patrick. Said that the squad is having a game night at his place.”

  
Brendon groans, “You're kidding me? On a Tuesday night?”

  
Pete stands, then helping Brendon to his feet. He pats him on the back, teasing, “Don’t worry, grandpa; I'll get you home in time for your stories.”

  
Brendon narrows his eyes. “Ha ha.”

  
Shrugging, Pete jogs along with Brendon’s swift pace to his car, admitting, “I dunno, it sounds fun to me.”

  
“No, no, you don’t understand,” Brendon insists. “You haven’t played games with us before. Frank wins every game by stupid luck, practically guaranteed. Not to mention, Patrick won this pop culture game by listing over sixteen Harry Potter spells off of the top of his head. It was ruthless.”

  
Brendon hops into his car and Pete follows suite, Brendon groaning, “And don’t even get me started on the time we played Dungeons and Dragons.”

  
“I’ve always wanted to play that!” Pete cuts in.

  
Brendon looks at him skeptically, shaking his head. “Nah. I don’t go on _quests_.”

  
Pete rolls his eyes, telling, “I still think you’re making a big deal of this. It’ll be fun.”

  
“Don’t get me wrong; it’s usually fun,” Brendon agrees. He peers into his rearview mirror as he backs out of his parking space, adding under his breath, “Just very, very monotonous.”  
They arrive at Patrick’s basement, the area where the group usually meets together for these events, to find a difference in this game night. Only, this difference has been around for some four days now, and its name is Tyler Joseph.

  
Brendon’s afraid it’s going to be awkward, but he and Pete are greeted all the same. According to routine, the boys blare Aneurysm by Nirvana as they partake in the pregame beverage of Rum and Coke, Tyler and Pete’s minus the rum, Patrick’s a double.

  
As they say, let the games begin.


	19. Chapter 19

 

They start off with a game of Twister, which was specifically chosen early in the night, before alcohol was too potent in their bloodstreams. Although a drunken, groping game of Twister would be comedic gold, it would be very likely to get heated. Most all competitive games are eliminated as soon as possible; when they’re drunk they’re prone to getting angry if they’re doing poorly. It’s easier to take it easy, that, and to strategically hot glue all of the boards to some kind of surface.

Twister ensues, with Patrick sitting out in order to spin the wheel.

“That sucks!” Pete comments. “Why don’t you play with us?”

Patrick shrugs, confesses blatantly, “I’m fat. Also, not flexible. And last time my pants were sliding down, Frank threw a pen into my buttcrack.”

Frank nods earnestly. “I couldn’t help it; it was calling to me.”

Patrick shakes his head, smiling nonetheless. He flicks the spinner, adding, “So, this is why I sit out on that one. Besides, I’m pretty sure I’ve been sore in the following days after Twister.”

Brendon, who is all but a pretzel, smirks, “Pathetic.”

“Watch it, Urie,” Patrick warns. “One more wisecrack and I’ll lie about your hand placement.”

Brendon makes a mocking face before rolling his eyes.

Tyler, who turns out to be nothing short of a contortionist, wins Twister. Frank was some solid competition for Pete, that was, until he got a headache from the bit of booze he’d been drinking and had to sit out. Compared to Pete’s fitness, Brendon and Tyler were practically ninjas, and their minds as sharp as Monks. Pete stood no chance, and so he quit to spare his already aching limbs.

They proceed to push through multiple card games, in which Pete discovers that Frank is _very_ prone to cheating. Not only that, but Pete keeps unknowingly flashing his cards at everyone, just to have the boys inform, “YOUR HAND IS BLEEDING.” When Pete first heard those words, he examined his flesh for some sort of scrape or cut, which made them all laugh. Kind of pouting at being the butt of the joke, Brendon planted a quick peck on his cheek, winking at the boy. Pete instantly felt better.

Since a lot of card games rely on luck of the draw, Frank wins nearly every time by some miracle. Patrick is often second, and both Brendon and Pete are absolutely horrendous, not only in luck, but in strategy and approach as well.

Eventually, their uniformity dissolves, and they sort of hang around the TV, wrapped up in different things. Frank is buzzed by this point, and Patrick well drunk. Brendon is buzzed but not showing it, and Tyler and Pete are the sober outsiders. Pete sits in Brendon’s lap as Brendon intends to find out just how far up his boyfriend’s shirt he can slide his hand in without him objecting. Meanwhile, Patrick is talking to Frank and Tyler, who are sort of mocking the boy’s drunken slurring and exaggerated gestures.

Frank gets up to go to the bathroom, and Brendon, a hint of mischief in his eyes, orders Pete, “Talk Frank into doing some pullups on that bar over there.”  
Pete eyes the thing, shrugging as he agrees, “Sure, yeah. What for?”

Brendon giggles, “You’ll see.”

As soon as Frank’s back, a flap of his Marvel boxers haphazardly zipped into his fly, Pete gets him talking about exercise, and the Frank slightly coaxed by alcohol is convinced he can do at least eight pullups.

So he heads on over, pulling himself up at the bar. As he’s hanging there, struggling to get the first one going, Brendon sneaks up behind him, grabbing the boy’s jeans (and boxers in this case) and bringing them down to his ankles.

Everyone bursts out laughing, and why wouldn’t they? They’ve seen naked dudes enough for it to be funny, and for every time they’ve seen a guy naked, they’ve seen Frank naked twice (at least, Brendon and Patrick have.)

And that’s what Brendon forgets. Not _everyone_ in the room has seen the pale, flat backside that is Frank’s, and certainly not Tyler has seen his boyfriend literally and metaphorically caught with his pants down.

Frank drops from the bar, beet red as he pulls his pants back up. There’s no way to do that and look tough, by the way; everyone in their crew knew that by now. Tears in his eyes, he shoved Brendon, cursing, “Fucker,” before storming off.

Brendon, confused, then tails his friend, and Pete doesn’t really know why, but he feels the need to follow. Maybe it’s because they’ve both been drinking and could use Pete as a mediator. Or perhaps it’s due to the fact that Frank looked pretty pissed off and Pete doesn’t want it to get physical. That, or maybe he’s just really biting into the drama tonight. For whatever reason, he jogs along and catches up, just in time to hear Brendon reasoning with Frank, “What’s the problem? I’ve seen you naked like a gazillion times, Frank, and so has Patrick! Who cares?”

Frank, crying still, retorts, “Yeah, but _Tyler_ hasn’t!”

That’s when it clicks for both Pete and Brendon.

“That was so humiliating,” Frank sobs. “Fuck you, Urie. You owe me, big time for this.”

“Look, I’m sorry! I didn’t think about it that way!” Brendon admits. “I wouldn’t have done it if I had.”

“Besides, he just saw the booty,” Pete interrupts. Eyes darting, he adds for consolation, “Not your pee-pee.”

Frank finally chuckles, bobbing his head as he jokes, “Well, heaven forbid anyone see my pee-pee.”

That gets Brendon to laugh too, and the two are best of friends again within moments. After they settle down, Frank realizes, “I still can’t imagine facing him though; I’m so embarrassed.”

Brendon, hands on his belt buckle, insists, “Say no more!” With that, he undoes the thing, removing his pants, then his shirt, and shoes, leaving him in some grey Joe Boxers. “There’s no way you’ll look like a bigger idiot than me!”  
Frank frowns, scoffing, “Like they’ll buy that.”

“No, get this!” Brendon continues. “I’ll say I spilled all over my clothes trying to get food. Ta-da!” He crosses to the Stumps’ washing machine, adding his bundle of clothes to the already running load for good measure.

Frank grins finally, telling softly, “Thanks, B.”

“Don’t get all gay about it,” Brendon teases. He loops an arm around Pete’s shoulder, leading the trio back downstairs to join the games. Brendon was right; it’s hard to make fun of Frank when Brendon is practically naked, due to a stupid spill, as far as they know. Yes, only Frank, Pete, and Brendon know that it was a form of sacrifice, a meager one at that, but still, the giving of oneself for the prosper of another.


	20. Chapter 20

                Brendon’s the kind of guy to put himself on the line for others, and Pete likes to believe he’s the same way. People like these are so important in life; they’re the kind of person that not only everyone deserves, but that everyone needs. Brendon subjected himself to teasing all that night for Frank, but to him, it was nothing. After all, what was a little joking around when Frank was the one who’d been utterly humiliated? The plan worked too; no one had a word to say about Frank’s ass- or rather, lack of ass- they were too fixated on why Brendon was practically naked. Brendon was a trooper, that was for sure, but no amount of grit would help them come the next day.

                On the ride home that night, Pete drives. They arrive at Brendon’s house a hair after nine o’clock, but of course, that’s no time for Pete to wind down and go to sleep. Brendon knows this too, and as the boys enter his bedroom (not intentionally but conveniently dimly lit), there’s only one thing on his mind.

                Actually, there’s multiple things on his mind, making out until they’re naked and senseless being at the forefront, and lounging around more towards the back. Furthermore, the thing farthest back in Brendon’s mind is the possibility of his Mormon parents catching on, which he doubts would ever happen. Even if it would, they wouldn’t be the type to bodily throw Brendon out of the house. Would they support him being gay? Probably not, and shame on them for this, but Brendon knew that at least he’d be physically safe if that situation was to come about.

                So, that’s not what he’s concerned about right now. No, he’s more heavily fixated on the beautiful boy walking him to his door and _ohmygod_ he is bending over right here right now and at that moment Brendon’s convinced Pete’s not wearing a belt just for him.

                “Brendon, I’m talking to you,” Pete repeats.

                “Ass,” Brendon murmurs.

                Pete narrows his eyes, smiling slightly. “What?”

                Brendon, eyes wide and jaw dropped, closes his mouth, blushing slightly.

                “Were you staring at my ass?” Pete demands.

                Brendon considers playing dumb, after all, mystery is totally sexy. Unfortunately, his stupid head is already bobbing like its being paid to.

                Pete smirks, bringing a hand to the waistband of his jeans. Sliding those down partially along with his underwear, he offers, “Like that?”

                Brendon gets a little hard and again he’s nodding all stupid like.

                Pete hikes them back onto his hips, telling, “Good.” He grins at Brendon and takes his hand, ordering, “Come in here, you big idiot.”

                And wow, Pete is marching Brendon up the stairs of his own home like he owns the place or something. When they get to Brendon’s room, Pete takes his shirt off, followed by his pants, leaving him in some purple boxer briefs. He takes a hand to Brendon’s pants, coaxing down his zipper before pulling the denim to his ankles. Brendon obediently steps out of them, kicking the material to the side as he stands in baby blue American Apparel briefs.

                Pete, grazing his fingertips over the front waistband of Brendon’s underwear, smirks, “Are these the only kind you own or what?”

                “These and Joe Boxers,” Brendon admits. “That, and whatever brand of tighty whities my mom bought me all those years ago.”

                Remembering the pair that Pete had had all but physically torn off of him, Pete reaches around Brendon’s waist, teasing, “Do these have your initial?”

                Brendon blushes and resists, not so much out of defiance but more through curiosity, interest in what his boyfriend will do next.

                Pete grabs the back waistband to Brendon’s briefs, ordering, “Let me see.”

                “No,” Brendon responds, but it comes out as more of a question. He hopes Pete’s going somewhere with this; the whole verbally pushy thing is being a bit of a cockblock.

                Pete smirks and tugs up on Brendon’s briefs, tutting his tongue. “Naughty.”

                Brendon starts to get a little hard, and he challenges, “What are you going to do about it?”

                Pete grins devilishly, pulling Brendon along by the underwear as he replies, “I’ll fucking show you.”

                Brendon gulps; the kinkiest thing he’s ever done with a guy is wear costumes, that and the one time with Gabe when Gabe insisted Brendon pinch his nipple through his shirt while they were making out, which was fine and dandy. But it sounds to Brendon like he’s about to be punished, and he’s not sure where this is heading.

                Next thing Brendon knows, Pete’s yanking Brendon over his lap (by the briefs, mind you). Pete traces the outline of Brendon’s ass with his fingernails, leaning into Brendon’s ear to scold, “You’ve been bad.”

                Brendon feels sweat start to bead on his upper lip; he feels he knows what’s coming. Sure enough, the first blow hits him, not too hard, not too soft. It’s just enough to ignite some of those nerves residing in his backside, but not too much to the point he’s in pain. No, it’s just right, and part of him is considering telling Pete it feels good when a second, harder smack lands. Pete murmurs, “Little brat.”

Brendon’s underwear is pulled down his thighs as Pete continues to spank him, sitting quietly. Eventually, Pete utters, “Are you sorry?”

                If his ass weren’t the slightest bit sore, Brendon would’ve said no. But he merely hangs his head and nods, swallowing before confiding, “Thank you, Daddy.”

                “What are you thanking me for?” Pete demands. He eases Brendon’s chin up so their eyes meet, assuring, “Your punishment’s over.” He gently pulls Brendon’s underwear back up, only now Brendon’s hard. Brendon sort of eyes Pete, looks down at his own crotch, and then looks at his boyfriend again.

                Pete smiles, rolls his eyes. “Fine.” He slips a hand beneath the front of Brendon’s underwear, closing his fingers around Brendon’s length. He begins to work his boyfriend, planting biting, sucking kisses around Brendon’s neck and chest. Running brushing fingertips up his bare side, Pete proceeds to work Brendon to the point of orgasm, where Brendon dips his head into Pete’s shoulder and whines out some obscenities.

                The two then lay back, Pete slightly palming his own hardened cock through his underwear as Brendon lays back in bliss. “Where did the spanking thing come from?”

                Pete blushes, confesses, “It’s something I’ve been wanting to try.”

                Brendon shrugs. “Was it any good?”

                “It was okay,” Pete decides. “How were things on your end?” More seriously, he asks, “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

                Brendon grins, sharing, “It was actually pretty satisfying.”

                “Good,” Pete mutters. “I’m always satisfying.”

                The two lay into each other, waking the next morning for school, where the rest of the world is waiting for them.

**Author's Note:**

> This is just the first chapter! I should be updating soon. Thanks for reading!! Please comment and leave a kudos if you enjoyed it.


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